Field of Dreams
by ruth baulding
Summary: Sent to the agricultural world Antar 4 to help settle a labor dispute involving a colfillini plantation, Qui Gon Jinn and Obi Wan Kenobi end up reaping what they they have sown: trouble.
1. Chapter 1

**Field of Dreams**

_Author's note: Yet another tale inspired by a brief but intriguing mention in Karen Miller's Wild Space.  Though tragic, it deserves its own telling. _

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

Shmojo Lurree had been piloting Republic courier craft for the better part of thirty years, counting his time as an assistant navigator for the armored transport fleet which served the Galactic Financial Reserve. He had been all over the known galaxy, and had provided fast reliable service to any number of important passengers – including quite a number of Jedi over the years. So, really, there was no reason for him to be unnerved by the two individuals sitting in the small passenger cabin directly behind the cockpit. There was no reason to be distracted to the point of paying scant attention to the helm and the nav console. No reason to be eavesdropping like a newbie fresh out of Academy, so eager to hear what was being said behind him that he was practically leaning out of the pilot's seat, almost spilling his plasti-therm caff mug's tepid contents onto the deck.

But these two were just such characters. Not to look at: no, in that respect they were run of the mill, Jedi-wise. Tall human man, about Shmojo's own age, mane of long brown hair, graying beard, sloping forehead and crooked nose. Jedi master, check. Always a little worn, a little frayed, a little aloof, a little intimidating. Across from him, on the opposite bench, another human. Adolescent. Maybe late teens, but it was hard to tell because his baby face made him seem younger but his eyes- serious, cynical – made him seem older. Padawan, check. That was the standard package you got on most Jedi assignments: one senior Jedi and one learner. Rumor had it that the Jedi did all their teaching one on one, on the job. No classrooms, no simulations or exercises. Just harsh reality from day one. Maybe. You just never knew with the Jedi. They were…different.

The younger one was reading a datapad. Whatever he was looking at, he didn't like it. "Master," he complained. "This is so... uncivilized."

The older man chuckled heartily. "You'll be brilliant," he assured his student. "It will broaden your horizons."

"You said that about Nal Hutta, too," the apprentice countered, his clipped tones taking on just the barest hint of peevishness. "When we met your _contact_. "

The master snorted dismissively. "T'Li-Chthko is harmless. And after she had consumed five drinks, it was perhaps unfair of me to spring you on her without warning."

"It was the other way around, master. She did all the, ah, _springing_. And I'll keep my narrow horizons, thank you."

Shmojo craned his head further, smiling a little at this interchange. There was a sudden pause in the conversation, as though the speakers had abruptly become aware of his interest in their private affairs. He jerked back upright in his seat and fiddled with the stabilizer controls. Jedi were supposed to have weird powers – reading thoughts, that kind of thing. It didn't hurt to be careful, he figured.

"The briefing," the older man reminded his companion.

"Yes, master. My alter ego has accrued a crushing debt: gambling, expensive entertainments, drinking and carousing, unwise business investments, and exotic travel."

"Eventually leading you into desperate financial straits," the master concluded.

The younger Jedi smirked. "Well, at least I've been having a good time."

"Yes," the other said repressively. "When you get off the econo class freighter line from Azterri you will proceed directly to the labor recruiting office. The colfillini plantation has recently run an advertisement campaign promising credit restoration and financial rescue to those willing to join their volunteer corps."

"Yes, master…." Another pause, presumably as the younger Jedi perused the reading material. Shmojo longed to have a peek at that datapad and whatever classified mission details it might contain, but he knew the chance would never be given him. The Padawan eventually made a soft noise of disgust. "Don't I possess _any_ useful skills?"

"I should think not. We need you to be assigned to the manual labor pool. You are, shall we say, brawn with no brains."

"Good thing T'Li-Chthko won't be anywhere near," the Padawan muttered sardonically.

A long sigh of mingled exasperation and worry. "I do not think this is a matter for levity, Obi Wan."

"I sense your concern, master – but this is no different from other undercover operations we have been involved in."

"Last time I left you to carry out an undercover operation _alone,_ you nearly got yourself killed. On Niffrendi, if you will recall."

There was a pause, just long enough to accent the next remark, and then: "I will gladly exchange places with you, master. The labor recruiters _are_ looking for brawn without brains."

Shmojo almost choked on his last mouthful of lukewarm caff. He wondered briefly whether the Jedi master would cut off his student's head with his laser sword, or pull some other grisly stunt….but the tall man merely chuckled dangerously. "Have a care…I might decide to leave you working in the fields permanently, Padawan."

There was a long silence during which Shmojo returned his straying mind to the ship's controls. They were approaching the Azterri system rapidly. He was to drop off both passengers at the Republic spaceport on the craggy moon and proceed onward to his next assigned destination. Where the Jedi went after he had delivered them was none of his business – though part of him longed to know more about the potentially disastrous infiltration they were plotting. With a resigned shrug, he punched in the approach vector and set the transponder to identify and request landing clearance.

Meanwhile, the Jedi had changed topics. They were speaking in very low voices, almost a soundless whisper, but Shmojo's aural receptors were far more sensitive than a human's.

"Have you been practicing the _tai vordrax_ exercises, as I suggested?"

"Yes, master. I find them…difficult. Sporadic. Sometimes there is nothing at all, and sometimes, well, too much."

The master made a _tsking_ sound deep in his throat. "Postcognition is one of the only sense abilities which draws upon the Unifying Force. It should come more naturally to you. But even if it does not, I still think focusing on its cultivation for a short while will be a salutary discipline. Here." There was a rustling, as of the ship's bench cushions being shifted. "Try this."

"An….earring?"

Shmojo blanched. So_ that's_ where the missing jewelry had lodged itself. But he could say nothing without revealing himself to be an eavesdropper, so he merely hunched forward in his seat and kept listening.

There was a long pause – and then the younger Jedi murmured, "A Twi"lek lady…the Coruscant Opera house. There were Chyrra singers. The food was delicious, and the night was warm, and, well…"

"How did it end up here on a diplomatic corps ship?" the older Jedi insisted, much to the unfortunate pilot's mortification.

"I have no idea," the Padawan said. Shmojo knew it was a lie, and he was sure the Jedi master knew it was a lie, and he was also sure that the Padawan knew that he knew ….he almost jumped out of his skin when a hand tapped him politely on the shoulder a moment later.

"Your pardon," the younger Jedi addressed him. "I believe a previous passenger must have dropped this. It might be valuable." The jewel was dropped unceremoniously into his outstretched palm.

"Thank you," he choked out. "I will see that it is returned."

The apprentice bowed, just a short little dip of the head, and disappeared back into the aft cabin.

And that was the precise moment when Shmojo Lurree decided, or discovered, that beyond being an object of fascinating speculation, a Jedi could also be a likable person. He kept this thought to himself, of course, in hope that nobody on board would be able to overhear it. And then he guided the small courier vessel into the Azterri spaceport and settled it into the assigned docking space with a great sense of relief.

The Jedi thanked him for his service and departed.

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><p>Jedi Master Qui Gon Jinn had been serving the Republic as peacekeeper and diplomat for almost forty standard years, counting his time as a Padawan learner. He had also spent many years teaching the next generation; in particular, he had devoted the last seven to his current apprentice's education in the ways of the Force. Obi Wan and he had together faced many perils and challenges, and he had to admit that his student had more than once accomplished feats he would not have thought possible for one so young. It was irrational, therefore, that he should be so unnerved by this relatively minor colfillini plantatioin assignment. The Antarian government had requested Jedi assistance in apprehending the villains responsible for outrageous violations of Galactic labor law – at least, suspected violations. The Antarians themselves were unwilling to proceed any further in their investigation without Republic aid because organized crime on the planet was strong, and both profited from and supported the vast agricultural concerns which accounted for the system's wealth. The key economic export – colfillini – had made more than one Antarian rich beyond the dreams of mortals. The mission was routine enough; the only reason he had elected to send his Padawan in indercover as a farm hand was for the purpose of collecting independent evidence of abuses, for use in a Republic court should the Antarians lose their nerve at the last minute.<p>

Still, despite the seemingly humdrum nature of this mission, he could not entirely dismiss the lurking sensation of something amiss, of a slow rot beneath the surface, dangers not yet apprehensible. This was normally Obi Wan's role: he would announce at the outset of the adventure that he had a bad, undefined feeling about the whole thing, while Qui Gon would counsel patience and a tighter focus in the present moment.

Perhaps he should take his own advice.

He watched his Padawan board the graffiti-covered, mynock-invested economy class public transport freighter that would deliver him and hundreds of other vagabonds and migrants to Antar 4's major spaceport. Obi Wan was barely recognizable in his disguise: frayed and worn , yet originally expensive, tailored clothing from the fashionable circles of the Core. His Padawan braid was tucked into the short nerftail behind his head, and he had very reluctantly agreed to permit one of the spaceport vendors on Azterri to provide him with a temporary phosphoric tattoo of a charioteer driving twin gundarks – the emblem of a popular pod-racing franchise. He disappeared into the belly of the enormous and shapeless vessel among a crowd of other beings whose fortunes were poor enough to necessitate the use of this most uncomfortable of transportation methods. Qui Gon shrugged off his vague unease and went in search of his own transport.

He would be arriving on Antar 4 amid the official fanfare and beaurocracy of a routine Galactic business licensing and exporting inspection. He had notified the colfillini plantation owners of the inspection schedule under his own name, though he had carefully omitted to mention that he was a Jedi knight. They would figure it out soon enough; and he had experienced enough less-than-warm welcomes in his career to know that this was a fact one might not always want to mention at the outset of a relationship. It occasionally made for awkward situations involving blasters and armed escorts at the moment of his arrival. He had opted to avoid such a scene this time around.

His first order of business, after boarding the luxury class private transport sent by special charter from the government of Antar 4, was to direct the droid steward to provide him with a comlink to the state offices. He wished to contact one Tayvor Mandirly, an agricultural expert from Alderaan who had arrived onplanet some weeks ago by permission of the Antari government, in order to conduct a bit of investigative journalism. Mandirly was a renowned activist and advocate for various agricultural and labor-related causes – a firm proponent of progressive employment structures and ecologically sound cultivation methods. In short, everything the plantation owners on Antar were not.

The trouble-making Alderaanian had not been heard from in days.

At last, a hologram of the Sub-secretary for Economic Affairs appeared. "I am sorry, sir, but Mandirly has not reported back into his offices here since his last field service trip. Would you like the contact sequence for his accommodations? Or would you prefer to leave a message?"

Qui Gon felt an invisible weight descend slowly in his gut. Something was amiss. He could feel it in the Force. "Thank you. I will try to contact him in person when I arrive," he told the curious official, and ended the transmission. His hand rested thoughtfully on the pommel of his lightsaber, hanging on his belt in easy reach, just beside Obi Wan's. He would return his Padawan's weapon by stealth once they were both safely established at the plantation. The need to travel without his 'saber for more than a full day had provoked strident objections from the young Jedi, but it would likely be impossible to smuggle the weapon in past the labor recruiters; rumor had told of very thorough and highly invasive searches and security measures. Better to flow with the current than to attempt a risky deception at this early stage in the mission.

Mandirly's prolonged absence was more than worrisome. The plantation in question – the largest on Antar 4, covering the entire fertile delta of the planet's main inhabited continent – was controlled by a pair of brothers known to be friendly with a crime syndicate famous for suppressing any negative publicity that might come its way. An outspoken idealist like Mandirly might easily offend their sensibilities and provoke some form of retaliation. He decided to make locating the Alderaanian a priority.

"May I offer you refreshment, sir?" The steward droid appeared at his elbow, bearing a platter of drinks.

"No, no thank you – I require nothing," Qui Gon told it, and settled into the soft acceleration couch to wait out the journey. He would not be able to find out anything more until he actually set foot on the rich, loamy soil of the planet itself.

He would have to be patient, and keep his mind on the present moment.


	2. Chapter 2

**Field of Dreams**

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><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

Obi Wan Kenobi had spent countless hours, days, weeks on innumerable spacecraft – from the most advanced starfighter to lumbering old freighters like this one. He had piloted quite a few of them himself, been shot down, shot down a few others, made a few narrow escapes and desperate landings, been held captive on a ship, stolen a ship, gone down with a ship, dismantled a ship, been to all corners of the galaxy in one ship or another. In short, since the age of twelve and a half, he had been – whether he wanted it or not – a constant and by now expert spacefarer. The only problem was that he really didn't like flying.

He was supremely confident on his own two feet, preferably with saber in hand. He could climb, swim, balance on precarious ledges, tumble, somersault, leap, and run with the best of them, regardless of terrain or the severity of the challenge. But put him in the dead and soulless bowels of a ship and send him careening through the void at velocities beyond imagining, and – despite all his years of training and his conscious desire to repress the feeling – he would be nervy and irritable indeed.

A slovenly co-passenger shoved him aside to get down the corridor to ship's malodorous and cramped cafeteria. "Move it, chizzsk," the fat alien growled as he slammed the unfortunate human into the plastoid wall and lumbered past.

The urge to flatten his rude assailant against the opposite wall with a crushing Force grip was one he easily flattened. He, at least, had learned to keep a tight leash on what had once been a troublesome temper. And Qui Gon had advised that he keep a low profile until his actual arrival on Antar. _I don't wish to bail you out of a police cell before the mission even begins,_ he had observed dryly. _Freighters can be rough places, as you know._

Yes, he knew….his very first trip on a large transport like this had resulted in a quick and never forgotten lesson in the hard ways of the world outside the sheltered Temple. That was a long time ago now. Then, he had been stunned and horrified by the glimpses of petty crime he had seen, thinking them outrages against the Force itself. Now he knew better. He had gained a wider understanding of the cruelty made possible by malice and greed. There was little in the universe, he guessed, that would shock him now. He wasn't _naïve_ anymore, nor hotheaded. He held his tongue and brushed himself off.

"Oh…are you all right?" another passenger exclaimed, bustling toward him down the narrow passage. It was a very short human woman, her wide figure swaddled in many layers of tramper's gear. Her slightly frizzled greying hair sought to escape from beneath a utility cap. She looked him up and down, in pity. "Listen, it does no good to let them run over you. Gotta stick up for yourself, kiddo. Next time he shoves you, give him one of these." She made an obscene hand sign at the offender's retreating back.

Obi Wan's eyebrows rose, on reflex.

"What?" the woman laughed gaily. "Your mama never taught you that one, huh?" She broke into another delighted cascade of laughter, and tucked a piece of unruly hair back into the dull cap.

"Ah…no," he answered, truthfully.

"Well." She eyed him up and down again, this time appraisingly. "Somebody ought to , that's for sure." Her grin revealed a few missing teeth,, and a few discolored ones. Her eyes were a mass of radiating lines, her nose a knobbly button between two rounded cheeks. It was a striking face.

He nodded, deeming this a sufficiently neutral response, and turned to set off down the corridor again.

"Wait, wait, whoa there,." The tramper woman hurried to catch up to him, her good humor unfazed by his not-so-subtle snub. "I'm teasing you." She thrust an arm through his and tugged him along the passageway. "You're new to this, aren't you? I can tell. Deal: you buy me lunch and I'll show you the ropes."

The odor from the galley was truly revolting, and he never had any appetite when flying. But the woman was likely well-informed. "That would be very helpful," he said, bracing himself as they stepped through the doors into the dining area proper.

"I know all the ins and outs of down and out," the woman assured him, her expression softening almost to wistfulness. "And it'll cost you only one helping of stew."

The menu item in question looked more like toxic waste sludge, in the young Jedi's opinion, but the tramper seemed immensely pleased to have her hot, steaming bowl of it served fresh out of a pot on the fusion oven. She took it from the droid server with an expression of eager anticipation.

"Mmmmm," she enthused as they sat down at a stained and scratched plastoid table in the far corner. "We call this Stick –it Stew," she confided. "Ship's cook takes the biggest pot and throws in everything that might be illegal or not pass customs or health inspection at the next spaceport. Sometimes its _delicious."_

"Stick-it…?" her companion repeated.

"You know. As in, the customs officials can stick it up their –"

"I see," he interrupted hastily. "Your advice would be much appreciated. I'm not staying aboard very long – disembarking at Antar 4, as a matter of fact. I don't suppose you have any tips on how to get a job down there?"

She spluttered on a hot spoonful. "You must be desperate…what's your name, anyway?"

"Ibo Bikenowa," he supplied. It was the name on the false identity documents he carried. Qui Gon had selected the pseudonym, amused by the coincidence that "Obi" spelled backward formed the word for _wild dog_ in Huttese.

"Well, listen, Ibo my friend – I'm Selmi, by the way – there's lots of talk about field work down there. They say the recruiters for some of those places can set you up with a clean slate on your credit, and it's probably true 'cause we all know the plantations are all owned by big gangs. But hell's moons, boy, that's hard manual labor. And it's a three year minimum contract. What's your other options?"

"Prison," he admitted. "Or starvation."

Selmi snorted. "You've been playing a little too hard back in the Core, huh? You're young to be such an idiot, but you ain't the only one in this galaxy. Sounds like you don't have much to lose. Why don't you go in for a spot of tramping? I could hook you up with some of the regulars."

Ibo Bikenowa shrugged. "Flying makes me spacesick. I'll take my chances on Antar."

The tramper woman sighed. "Then you just be careful, kiddo. Word is, some of those plantation bosses like to work people to death – literally. The big one, that's Colfico, run by Raxis and Nolid- that's the worst. Go to a smaller operation and you have a better chance of living to enjoy the rest of your life. That's the best advice I can give you. Stay away from the Raxis and Nolid farm. Even if they offer better terms."

"Thank you," the Padawan told her, carefully filing away the names in his mind and noting that the corrupt farm she had mentioned was his certain choice for employment.

* * *

><p>The employment lines at the immigration center a short distance outside Antar 4's spaceport were long. They wound around the duraplast prefab building and away down a narrow street or alley. Some beings had camped outside all night – bedrolls and evidence of scrounged-together meals littered the pedestrian pathway. Security droids patrolled the lines, idly hovering back and forth along the length of the sinuous thread of bored, hungry, tired, and desperate people waiting to find a spot as temporary labor on the agrarian planet. On occasion, a recruiter from one of the plantations would stroll down the length of the queue and randomly select a burly humanoid or a hulking member of the more muscular alien species. This lucky individual would then be escorted to the front of the line, never to return. The others remained…waiting. Hoping. Starving, for the most part.<p>

Obi Wan had been standing, ready to present his papers and request work, for four standard hours. He was worried: Qui Gon would by now already be on planet and heading for their rendezvous point. They had not calculated in the sheer inefficiency of the intake system here; and it now looked likely that he would be forced to spend the night here if the line did not move any faster. He watched a recruiter make his way down the line, gazing at each bedraggled candidate as he passed, and eventually waving a two and a half meter tall Wookie forward to accompany him. Obi Wan had been passed over a dozen times, and he realized that he simply did not pose an impressive enough figure physically.

Time to speed the process up. A Gamorrean lounging against the wall in front of him spat on the ground as the recruiter was just doubling back along the line, heading for the front with a disgusted expression on his face. Obi Wan took a deep calming breath and punched the Gamorrean solidly in the ribs, his knuckles cracking against the tusked fellow's thick hide and reinforced synthleather vest. Instantly, the brawl was on. Not only the short snouted victim but two or three other frustrated vagabonds threw themselves into the fistfight with enthusiasm. The young Jedi made a point of throwing them back against the walls with a very judicious, imperceptible Force push, and spun to deliver a solid kick to the grunting Gamorrean's chest. Another tramper, perhaps trying to stop the tussle, jumped onto his back and wrapped a thick arm around his throat; he timed the moment and threw his unwise attacker over his shoulder as hard as he could, sending the man crashing into a buzzing security droid. The next thing he knew, he was seeing stars as a second patrol droid's stun baton came down hard on his left shoulder.

"Desist or face deportation," its mechanical voice threatened him.

"Wait just a moment," the curious recruiter drawled. "I think he's coming with me."

He was hauled to his feet and forced to stumble forward, following the speaker to the front of the line and then inside the employment building. The tall Antarian wordlessly shoved him into a small interview room with a heavy door and left, punching a lock code into the control panel by the exit as he did so.

Obi Wan rubbed at his numb shoulder and arm. Perhaps he had _overdone_ it.,,, but the tactic had certainly been effective. He breathed out the lingering pain into the Force. He was making excellent progress. Now for the real trick: getting hired. By the time the door slid open again, his head had cleared and feeling had returned to his arm. Another recruiter entered the room, a datapad in one hand, and two muscular thugs behind him. These characters took up positions flanking the door.

"Looking for a job, eh?" the Antarian asked, consulting his pad. Without waiting for a reply he thrust out a hand and added, "Papers."

The Padawan silently handed over his false identity docs. Republic intelligence was good – he had no doubt they would pass inspection. The Antarian inserted the datachip into his pad's data slot and considered the readout carefully. "Hm," he remarked. "Nineteen standard. Legal adult on Antar, that's good. Got a record already, street fighting, debt evasion, ignoring subpoenas on six systems, vehicle registration violations, gambling arrests. You're a mess, kid. Is that why you're here?"

The young Jedi shifted. "I just want a job, sir."

"Huh. Well, I represent Colfico. That's the biggest colfillini exporter onplanet. Heard of us?"

He nodded.

"Listen. We got a credit renewal program. You do three years hard service as a volunteer field laborer, we use our connections to rehabilitate you. You get out of here with a clean record, and we call it even. It beats prison, let me tell you, son."

The Force twisted, a little. "Volunteer," Obi Wan repeated cautiously. "What precisely does that mean?"

The Antarian laughed, without humor. "It means you work for food and shelter only – because you are working off this debt to society you got going here. This is a community service corps, got it? Colfico is assuming the legal burden of your past mistakes. You get a chance at a fresh start. You ain't gonna get another chance like this, son. Courts in this sector, they're not too friendly toward scamps like yourself."

"So….I don't have much choice?"

Again, that laugh. The Force twisted a little more, thrumming with warning. Oh, he was on the right track. There could be no doubt. "No, not really. But of course you are free to say no. I'll just pass these docs of yours over to the deportation officer outside, and …well. It was nice meeting you, Ibo."

There was no need for him to say more. Any being with a past as checkered or problematic as Ibo Bikenowa's would immediately be arrested and extradited. Or, if he managed to run, face a life of desperate homelessness. The choice was a thinly disguised ultimatum.

"I guess I might make a pretty good farm hand," he said, throwing up his hands. The statement held a strange private resonance. There had been a time when he had dreaded reassignment to the Jedi Agricorps….when _farmhand_ had been an insult sure to strike a raw nerve and provoke a hot reaction…but that was a long time ago. Qui Gon had likely seen the irony of this and smiled inwardly at the joke. They had come a long way.

A plethora of forms was thrust under his nose. He signed each of the scrolling documents without reading, gripping the datapad firmly as he did so. So many others had touched it..both Antarians and desperate laborers. He extended his senses outward, seeking for the object's place in the endless flow of time, its connection to past events, past minds….but, as so often happened, he saw nothing. He could not control the ability; it was too lately learned, not yet mastered.

When he had finished, the recruiter took a step backward and signalled the two thugs, who sprang forward to seize the new "volunteer" by the arms, twisting them behind his back in a firm and painful grip. He tensed. "Hey! What do you think you're doing?"

The recruiter leered at him, stepped forward again, stripped off his shirt with a single rough motion. He fished a scanner out of his pocket. "Gotta make sure you aren't a runaway slave or a smuggler," he grunted. "We don't want that kind of scum on Colfico property. The scanner passed up and down, whirring faintly. "No trackers," the Antarian grunted. He squinted at Ibo's shoulders and back. "Nice tatt."

"Let me go," the youth protested, wondering why he hadn't argued a bit more persuasively for Qui Gon to exchange places with him. Next time…"Ungh," he grunted as the Antarians shoved him quite roughly, face-first against the wall.

"Hold still, kid," one of them advised in his ear. When he failed to comply, the command was accented with a swift punch in the kidney.

He throttled the hot flash of indignation and smothered the flood of battle energy that rose within. Farm hand, not Jedi. He was here to infiltrate. Justice came later. The recruiter subjected him to a _very _invasive search, - with brutal efficiency and no regard for decency - and then took a moment to rip the seams and hems of his discarded shirt, to be sure nothing was hidden inside. The two thugs held on painfully tight as Ibo Bikenowa squirmed in place.

"He's clean," the recruiter decided. "Listen, Ibo, you're feisty. That's something we're gonna have to work on with you. Stunt like you pulled outside there in that line isn't gonna get you far on a work team, understand?"

He opted not to respond to this taunt. A hypo was pressed against his bare neck.

"Load him up," the recruiter's voice said, from a curiously distant location.

Oh, Qui Gon Jinn owed him one for this. Most definitely. Dizziness and then a soft, tarry blackness enveloped his senses. His knees buckled and he slumped forward, helpless.


	3. Chapter 3

**Field of Dreams**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

An official courier was waiting patiently for Qui Gon at the spaceport. Since he arrived on a government charter ship, he was not subjected to customs or other burdensome red tape. The sleek landspeeder provided by the Antarian government bore him swiftly to the capitol city, where a modern structure of permaglass and duracrete rose in hard-edged splendor above the other more homely buildings. Antar's influx of wealth had been meteoric and had fallen primarily into the hands of a few major corporations, and of course the politicians who were able to reap a tax percentage on the profits. The civic center's spire was a testament to the sharp contrast between the recently enriched upper caste and the humble farming classes. The vehicles' doors were opened for him by liveried droids, without any question or challenge, and an aide was sent to escort him to the offices of the Prime Minister.

Antar 4's present leader was by no means a courageous individual. Lean, sunbeaten like all his people, Pollis Masa-Tu bobbed and wrung his hands as he greeted the Jedi. It was miracle of the Force, Qui Gon supposed, that the Antarian premier had summoned the courage to ask for official Republic intervention in the first place. He knew his place of power – indeed, his very life – depended upon the whim of the dominant crime syndicates. Inviting Jedi in was a risky undertaking.

"Oh Master Jinn," the nervous grey-haired Antarian murmured, his retinue of aides and secretaries clustering about him like the chicks of some overwrought fowl, "I do hope your arrival was discreet."

The Jedi master raised an eyebrow. He could have made it to this destination with absolute stealth, had it been necessary. "I am, to every observer and on every record, a routine business inspection officer from Coruscant," he assured the dithering minister. "And I shall carry out my investigation under that aegis so long as feasible."

Pollis Masa-Tu nodded and rubbed his hands together. "I thank you, truly I do, master Jedi. Things have, ah, gotten out of hand here. Out internal security forces are reluctant to confront Raxis and Nolid about labor practices…and yet the parliament is reluctant to tolerate further abuse. Our trade status might be threatened if matters are not resolved soon."

Qui Gon studied him carefully. "And this sudden crisis has been provoked by unexpected publicity?" he filled in.

The Prime Minister sank in to a plush chair behind his transparisteel desk. "I'm afraid so. We are of course supportive of the Constitution….investigative journalists and peaceful activists are welcome here on Antar, but, ah, as you say…"

The Jedi nodded. "Tayvor Mandirly's presence was an unexpected catalyst. His work threatens to reveal labor violations which will indeed affect your trade status in the Senate. It is admirable of you to seek redress for these crimes so quickly, Minister. I am sure the Republic courts will consider your actions."

The Antarian mopped his balding pate. "Yes, yes…If the Republic could , ah, effect the necessary arrests and so on, and submit evidence to a sub-district court, instead of leaving it to local jurisdiction….things would be so much easier for us."

The Jedi's mouth thinned. Yes, the Antarians were so firmly in the grip of their resident crime rings that they had no hope of a just outcome in their own courts. And yet they lived in dread of losing their trade sanctions if the abuses were made public. Mandirly had certainly catapulted the world in to a neat crisis. Qui Gon only hoped that Pollis Masa-Tu and his cabinet would have the grit to carry through with the proposed scheme. They might lose nerve at the last moment and refuse to prosecute the criminals in a Republic Court, rendering all his efforts vain. But that was the possible future. He must act for the common good, in the present moment.

"I understand that Mandirly's present whereabouts are unknown," he said.

A murmur ran around the room, and several of the officials exchanged worried glances. The Prime Minister cleared his throat.

"Ah, yes, he has been declared officially missing. And we have not been able to locate his holofiles, either – the documentary he was working on - a presentation of life on our colfillinin plantations. The holo was intended as a public release, as well as an addendum to his report to the Republic Committeee for Agricultural Affairs."

"I see," Qui Gon answered quietly. The Force told him that Mandirly was still alive, somewhere on this planet. Was he in hiding? Or captive? And most importantly, was his damning evidence with him, or had it been secreted away? The Alderaanian must have known from the outset what a dangerous game he was playing…he, unlike the trembling Antarian sitting in his polished office, must be a man of great courage.

Pollis Masa-Tu fiddled with the edge of his broad, gleaming desk. "You should know that Mandirly spoke with a lawyer representing Colfico – that's the plantation involved in his research. That was two days ago now. I believe they came to heated words. After the lawyer departed, Mandirly used a civic vehicle to make another trip to the plantation to collect evidence. He has never returned."

"That is suggestive," Qui Gon observed. "Your local police have made no effort to locate the missing vehicle?"

"Oh, that was easy, easy. The government fleet all have tracking beacons. A standard anti-theft measure. The speeder was found abandoned outside Colfico boundaries."

"And the plantation itself?"

The Prime Minister hemmed and hawed, in embarrassment. "The truth is, Master Jinn, that our local security officers are no match for Colfico's hired guards. It would be imprudent to send them in over the property line. We have very strict trespassing laws on Antar, you know. Such interference is , ah, difficult to manage."

"I see." The tall Jedi understood perfectly. The local police were outright terrified of Raxis and Nolid's guards, and would not set foot inside the plantation boundaries. The government was afraid of pursuing the matter independently, and afraid of the consequences of not doing so. The Jedi had been called in to do all the dirty work.

"I come to serve," he added, with a small sigh. "It is to be hoped I can gather positive evidence of wrongdoing and apprehend those responsible."

A tall Antarian, perhaps the Sub-Secretary for Economic Affairs, spoke next. "I must ask, Master Jinn, with all due respect of course, how you hope to gather evidence against Raxis and Nolid by, eh, interviewing them. They are masters of deception and have powerful allies. I do not think a Republic business exporting inspection will reveal anything useful."

Qui Gon was well aware of this; his role was to provide a distraction. His Padawan was the one gathering crucial evidence…but the Antarian government did not even know that a second Jedi was on planet. "I have my means," he smiled tightly.

When he did not elaborate, the Sub-Secretary lapsed into an unimpressed and anxious silence. Pollis Masa-Tu seemed satisfied – perhaps simply relieved that somebody else was going to handle the mess on his behalf. "We wil provide transport to the plantation borders as soon as you wish. There are accommodations here reserved for your use, if you would prefer to rest after your journey and commence with your investigation in the morning."

"No," Qui Gon responded. "I think it wise to travel to the plantation this evening." After all, he had a loosely pre-arranged rendezvous with Obi Wan at the site. And the sooner he was able to reestablish contact with his apprentice,, the better.

Colfico might be more than they had bargained for.

* * *

><p>"Wake up, sleeping beauty."<p>

This grating voice was somehow attached to a foot. And the foot delivered a harsh nudge in the ribs to accent this last remark. Obi Wan reluctantly wrenched himself awake and half rolled into a sitting position.

Disoriented, groggy, he breathed in and waited for the Force to stop churning, for his senses to straighten themselves out. Patience. He was in a dark room – plastoid walls and floor, devoid of furnishing or decoration, a primitive radiation heater in the corner. Bodies sprawled or hunched everywhere – on the floor, against the walls, some of them draped across others with their limbs akimbo, as many together as the cramped space could possibly hold. His eyes lighted on the reinforced durasteel door, with an external locking mechanism. The sour, slightly stale scent of alien and human sweat intermingled in the air. There was a tang of fear in the Force.

"Wake up! Wake up!" the voice shouted, rudely kicking or shoving others into consciousness. The tall Antarian wore a kind of stained uniform. A foreman? A labor boss? The bully made sure that every one present in the room – perhaps forty beings of different ages and species – was listening and at least nominally awake, before continuing in a baritone growl. "Welcome to the volunteer corps, recruits," he snarled. "You are on Colfico property, and for the next three years you _are_ Colifico property. Understood? This is your new work unit –" He waved an arm around to encompass the groggy assortment of new laborers. "And this is your new work unit shelter. Those who don't work hard enough to earn the privilege of staying here overnight will sleep outside for a day or two. We can always use extra scarecrows. Those who don't work hard enough to earn the privilege of eating will starve. Questions?"

"What kind of work?" Obi Wan managed. None of the others seemed able or willing to speak at all. Many were groaning, a few falling back over where they sat. A few mumbled incoherently, shaking their heads and squinting in the dim light.

"What kind of work?" the foreman or prison guard, or whatever he was, snorted. "_Whatever I tell you to do!_" he shouted. "And no fighting. I hear you like a good brawl, lad. Well, pull any of that nonsense here and you can have all the fun you want brawling with my akk dogs. Got it?"

It might have been the lingering effects of the drug, but his thought slipped into speech before he could stop it. "I look forward to it," he muttered.

The foreman stepped over the body of a huge Paxellian and seized the impudent youth by his hair. "That _accent_ don't earn you the right to give me lip," he snarled, twisting viciously.

The other workers stirred, drew back cringing to the edges of the room. "All right, people!" the labor boss announced. "Let's get this straight. Disrespect gets paid back right away. This here scum is not getting any dinner tonight – and," he added, casting a thunderous look around the fearful audience, "He's goin' up to the House to have a chat with the bosses."

Nobody said anything. A clattering sound outside heralded the arrival of another work crew – dirty, bent, thin and exhausted wraiths – who delivered a meal comprised of a malodorous gruel and some kind of flat protein bread. Two of the thugs like those he had encountered in the labor recruiter's office shoved their way through the crowd and seized the upstart, wielding stun batons threateningly as they did so. They dragged him out into the fresh air of late evening. Two moons hung in the sky. On every side, silhouetted against the horizon, rose the tall waving stalks of colfillini. A sweet grassy scent pervaded the air – a welcome relief from the stink of the shelter.

"So you think you're smart," one of the guards chuckled as he shoved the recalcitrant Ibo forward.

"But you're too stupid to keep a civil tongue in your head," the other added.

"Maybe he don't need a tongue in his head at all," the first one smiled sadistically.

The young Jedi tensed. Qui Gon had told him to make trouble, to push limits and test the boundaries of the labor system. But it would appear that he had once again _overdone_ it. He could land himself in serious trouble here, if he was not more mindful. He pressed his mouth shut, determined to play this game more carefully. He was at the moment unarmed and effectively lost – he could not say where he was, nor the best route to escape. This was proving to be a more volatile situation than he had anticipated.

The foreman who had debriefed the work unit interrupted the guards' fun. "That's Colfico property," he warned. "Take him up to Raxis and let the boss have a talk with him. See what he thinks of this little gundark-snot's wit."

This idea seemed to strike the two enforcers as immensely funny. They shoved Ibo along a trail beaten through the tall rows of green and red plant stalks, and into wide speeder waiting nearby. The fields stretched endlessly away in every direction, broken only by similar trails beaten or burned through the vast farm, like tunnels in an immeasurable labyrinth. The Padawan carefully committed the path they took to memory; though he had no idea where he was in relation to the plantation as a whole, he could at least remember how to navigate his way to its headquarters.

If the Force was with him, he might run across Qui Gon there.


	4. Chapter 4

**Field of Dreams**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

Qui Gon instructed the driver to wait outside in the speeder, and walked up the well groomed pathway leading to Colfico's headquarters at a measured pace. The gargantuan colfillini growing and processing center presented an impressive façade: the buildings were new and built of state of the art materials. The lawns and visible portions of arable land were orderly and lush green. Gleaming vehicles and equipment stood ready in a sheltered enclosure, and signage in several Galactic languages welcomed and guided visitors to the appropriate office or substation. He paused at a kiosk displaying a map of the entire plantation. It sprawled over most the equatorial fertile region on this small continent, and comprised perhaps a million square kilometers of land all told. It was subdivided into parts labeled work units, each with a foreman or manager's name attached. It was a vast area, and must require many thousands of workers to operate the harvesting and tilling equipment.

A stout Antarian in a long, shimmering tunic and jacket ambled out to greet him. An amiable smile was plastered on his face, but in the Force his presence vibrated with malice and greed. He introduced himself as Raxis, one of the two brothers who owned the corporation.

"I understand that the Republic wishes to send an inspector to ascertain the facts regarding this slanderous and unfortunate labor dispute," he purred. "But – you will forgive me – I did not expect such a minor legal affair to merit such attention. This might very well be the first time the Republic has sent an inspector to Antar."

"Then it is my honor to be here," Qui Gon replied pleasantly. " The Chancellor and the Senate do not consider Antar's well-being any less important than that of any other world in the Republic."

The Antarian paused, his cunning face a polite mask. "I am glad to hear it," he sighed, at last. "Colfico – my brother and I – are most grateful to have an objective witness. Perhaps your investigation can clear our names of these dreadful and unfounded rumors. My brother and I have every desire to conduct this affair as openly as possible. Ah – Nolid is engaged otherwise this evening, and our legal counsel will be available tomorrow. Perhaps you would care to meet in the morning? It is rather late to receive visitors," he added.

The words were right, tinged with sincerity, but the Force said otherwise. Raxis was a clever and confident liar, no mere thug. His purported connection to organized crime was more than plausible; he had the inherent oiliness of a Hutt.

"Of course," Qui Gon replied, in an equally bland tone. "I shall speak to your lawyer first thing in the morning. I came late because I hoped to overview your recent hiring contracts and employment records. It would be best if I were well-informed before the morning's meeting – I am sure your lawyer's time is valuable and I do not wish to waste it on details."

Raxis nodded, his suspicion or tension easing slightly at the suggestion. A routine documents inspection would reveal nothing; Qui Gon was certain the plantation owners had thoroughly falsified and sanitized their own records.

"This way, then – we can accommodate your request, of course. My private office is upstairs. I shall leave you to your researches, then. We are as I said eager to maintain transparency. I shall give you my own security code for accessing the files."

"Thank you." As he thought. There was nothing at all of interest in the records. Qui Gon followed the Antarian through the lavishly appointed offices and then up a stairway to an even more luxurious private dwelling on the second and third floor. At the end of a corridor, Raxis punched a key code in to a panel and opened a heavily reinforced door.

"Here is my private office," he smiled. "Make yourself comfortable."

Qui Gon seated himself at the computer terminal and made a show of eagerly accessing Colfico's confidential files. Raxis hovered nearby, a look of placid geniality frozen in place on his weathered Antarian features. Presently a communication device at his belt chimed.

"Raxis."

"Boss, the foreman from Ossk-8 work section is here. He's having a bit of trouble with a new worker. Thought you might like to have a talk with him."

The Force snapped. Qui Gon's head came up, fractionally. Reaching through its invisible currents, he sensed Obi Wan nearby. _Well done,_ he smiled grimly. Their arranged meeting place was here at the headquarters. His Padawan had found a way to arrive here in record time.

"Excuse me," Raxis said smoothly. "I handle all the worker's difficulties personally. I like to promote a family atmosphere, despite our large size. I should not be long – I'll send a droid up should you require refreshment or clerical assistance."

Qui Gon nodded. "That is not necessary."

"My pleasure," Raxis insisted, disappearing through the door. Qui Gon heard the faint catch of magnetic locks snapping into place.

He waited a full ten count before rising, and overriding the simple lock mechanism with a careful application of the Force. Avoiding the main stairs, he strode down the adjacent corridor and found a serving alleyway intended for the numerous domestic droids' use. A small utility lift descended to the ground level, and here, at the back of the cavernous headquarters building, a covered portico, its roof held aloft by ornamental columns. It provided him with a shadowed observation post.

A large speeder bearing two Antarians in security uniform roared into the back drive, repulsors scattering the neatly raked gravel. Raxis strode forward to meet the newcomers, the moons glinting on his shimmersilk vest. A fourth Anatarian, also in Colfico fatigues, trailed behind him. A few soft words were exchanged, and the guards hustled a very familiar young human out of the speeder, none too gently. He appeared to be under arrest.

Qui Gon melted back into the darkness and shook his head once. Obi Wan's talent for trouble was unparalleled, possibly in the entire history of the Jedi Order. Even Qui Gon himself had not been so adept at making enemies in his own rambunctious youth. He had told his Padawan to make himself _noticeable. _Leave it to his over-diligent apprentice to obey in the most emphatic manner possible.

The guards held the novice farm worker between them, each gripping an arm tightly at an awkward and threatening angle, while Raxis walked slowly up and down before the prisoner. The Antarain stooped, his silky voice carrying easily on the still evening air.

"So," he said. "Your name?"

"Ibo Bikenowa," the youth replied, calmly.

"Welcome to Colfico," Raxis replied. "You are a new to the corps, so I understand if you require a time of adjustement. But disrespect for the foremen is intolerable. Without proper discipline in the labor units, this entire plantation would fall apart."

"Yes, sir," the prisoner said, cautiously.

The Antarian standing behind Raxis stepped forward and poked the farm hand in his bare chest. "You like podracing,, huh?" he inquired, his blunt fingers tracing over the edge of the gundark charioteer inscribed upon Ibo's shoulder. "Know how we do podracing out here on the farm?"

The guards chuckled a little. The Force blackened.

"We tie each one o yer ankles to an akk and set 'em loose in the fields!" the rough Anatarian elaborated. "Get it? Yer the pod, they're the engines. Everyone takes bets on how long you survive. Maybe that's what your disrespect will get you. Sound like fun?"

If he was intimidated, Ibo's face did not show it. He stared back at the speaker with an expression of disgust.

"Now, now," Raxis intervened in a reasonable tone, gently pushing his enthusiastic underling out of the way. "There's no need to get carried away. Ibo, your problem is simply one of self control. I'm told you have difficulty holding your tongue."

Qui Gon's eyebrows rose. That sounded likely enough.

"I believe that every bad habit can be overcome with practice," Raxis smiled coldly. "So, Ibo, I don't think this is a serious problem. You just need a little _practice_ keeping your mouth shut."

The Antarian who had suggested "podracing" withdrew a small packet and approached the youth, leering cruelly. There was a short scuffle, several loud yelps, and a loud smack as of a hand snapping across skin and bone. When the three hulking guards had finished, Ibo was on his knees and effectively gagged with a piece of dark adhesive over his mouth, the cruel Antarian was staggering backward with both hands clutching at his groin, and the two guards keeping the prisoner in place were chortling with delight at the discomfort of their companion. Raxis watched the scene dispassionately.

The injured guard recovered quickly enough, all things considered. He loomed over his victim, twisting a piece of knotted plast-fiber cord between his hands. "Okay, filthy little chiizzsk," he growled, as Raxis observed with a faint smile on his face, "Let's practice keeping your mouth shut." He raised the makeshift whip over his head. Ibo did not flinch.

Qui Gon clenched his jaw. "Raxis?" he called out, using the Force to open and close the main floor level door behind him.

"Chiizzsk!" somebody hissed. There was a concerted scrambling in the drive; for a moment Ibo disappeared again behind the guards. Raxis hurried forward to intercept the visitor, his body screening the others from view. Qui Gon casually sallied out into the portico's covered area, projecting obliviousness.

"AH!" Raxis boomed out. "Do you require further assistance? I am sorry – this young fellow seems to have created a stir…a misunderstanding, no doubt…"

Qui Gon flicked a glance at the group huddled near the speeder. He was relieved to see that the gag had been removed, though Ibo was still held firmly between two of the Antarians.

"Forgive the interruption." The tall Jedi replied easily. "I wonder if you might provide a clerical droid after all? I should like to download and copy some of your documentation."

Raxis rubbed his hands together. "Yes, just a moment, of course," he smiled, hurrying into the house. Qui Gon remained beneath the shelter of the portico, intently watching the foursome across the way.

"You are an idiot, Tarkall," the young Jedi murmured to the guard holding his left arm. Qui Gon felt the gentle persuasive power of the Force, its humorous ripple.

"You know you're an idiot, Tarkall, right?" the Antarian addressed his colleague.

The second guard stiffened. "Say that again, Sark-face."

"You want to hit him – hard," Obi Wan suggested.

The Force could have a wonderful effect on the weak-minded. Without hesitation, the second guard had delivered a stunning punch to the other's jaw. The third Antarian stepped in to break up the scuffle, and was instantly embroiled in the fight. The prisoner deftly extricated himself from their flailing limbs and slipped to one side, a smug smile playing over his features.

The Jedi master kept a straight face. Behind him, Raxis reappeared, barking orders into his comm. link. More security personnel emerged from around the building's side and hurried to separate and restrain the scuffling guards.

"I apologize for the unseemly conduct of my employees," Raxis frowned. "We have had some difficulties with discipline lately. Such reprehensible conduct in the ranks does nothing to quell damaging rumor." His slitted eyes lighted on the young worker hanging back, just out of the fray. "You there!" he called. "Come over here, lad."

The youth turned his head; his eyes took in the Antarian and Qui Gon without betraying a flicker of emotion. He walked slowly toward them, glancing once over his shoulder at the fighting and cursing guards. Qui Gon caught a flutter of self satisfaction in the Force.

"Here, you," the Antarian greeted his new recruit in an avuncular tone. "What's your name, again? I like to know all my employees personally."

The young man stared at Raxis, his eyes registering the unspoken threat, his posture tense. "Ibo Bikenowa," he answered. "It's my first day on the job. In the volunteer corps," he offered, his gaze sliding to the tall man beside Raxis. "Hello there."

Raxis stirred. "You ...have met?"

The Anatarian was dangerously pereceptive. Qui Gon's mouth thinned. _Careful, Padawan._

The young farm worker shook his head. "No, I'm sorry." He turned to QUi Gon. "For a moment there you reminded me strongly of my old grandfather back home."

_Brat. This is not funny, Obi Wan. _

Raxis relaxed, convinced by the easy excuse. "Ah, Ibo. This is an inspector from the Galactic Republic. Perhaps he would like a short interview with you – he is here to dispel false and slanderous notions about our labor practices here at Colfico." Raxis fixed the young worker with a stern, commanding stare. The implication was clear.

Qui Gon shifted. "Certainly," he answered. "Tell me, Ibo, what motivated you to join the volunteer corps?"

Ibo glanced at Raxis. "The recruiters were most persuasive about the benefits of joining the plantation labor force."

The Jedi master's eyes flickered. His apprentice's statement was a coded message. _Persuasive _meant coercive. "What benefits precisely does your contract include?" he asked mildly, as though making a routine inquiry.

"There were a great many forms…"Ibo hesitated. "I don't think I read them all before I signed….I'm not much of a reader, actually, sir."

Qui Gon nodded slightly, to show that he understood. It would be a good idea to steal one of those legal datapads, if he had an opportunity. He also allowed a tiny smile to tug at his mouth – the joke about illiteracy was for his sole benefit. "I hope you someday have the benefit of a good teacher, Ibo," he commented politely.

"Yes, sir. My grandfather...he tried to teach me once, but he's not much brighter than I am...so..." He trailed off with a shrug.

Qui Gon smiled blandly. "So you turned out to be a slow learner." _Ha. Take that - and stay focused, my cheeky young apprentice._

Raxis chuckled. "Which brings us back to the reason you're here. Now listen, Ibo my friend, it's very important that everyone on the crew knows his job and shows proper respect to those in charge. An operation as big as this doesn't run without some discipline and basic rules of order in the ranks. I can't have workers mouthing off to the foreman and managers; so I want you to take this as a warning. Slow learner or not, I'm sure there won't be another incident."

Ibo looked surprised. Qui Gon clearly felt the Anatarian's deception. Raxis' dishonesty radiated through the Force. A much more severe and less civilized punishment had been intended; Qui Gon had witnessed that for himself.

Raxis excused himself again, and hurried forward to give instructions to the knot of security officers who had finally subdued their brawling companions. The two Jedi were left alone under the portico for the briefest of times.

Wordlessly, Qui Gon slipped the miniature comlink recorder he had brought into Ibo's hand. The youth's fingers curled about it. The device would also serve as a homing beacon in case of trouble. The tall Jedi's hand brushed almost imperceptibly against the saber pommel hidden beneath his cloak. His eyes met Obi Wan's squarely.

But the Padawan gave the tiniest shake of the head. And indeed, he had nowhere to conceal the weapon, likely no privacy at all in the shelter provided for field hands. Qui Gon released a long breath of concern. The stakes were too high for his taste. Perhaps he should have agreed to exchange places with Obi Wan…but it was too late now. The infiltration was in place.

He felt a reassuring brush across his mind, carried on the Force. Obi Wan gazed at him intently, determination in every line of his face. He was willing and unafraid.

Qui Gon nodded. _May the Force be with you._

And then Raxis returned with a new guard also in uniform with the Colfico logo on its sleeve.

"Crellid here will escort you back to your shelter," the Antarian informed Ibo. "I'm sure you'll be ready to work in the morning." The underling beside him nodded meaningfully, a dark amusement burning in his eyes.

"Yes, sir," Ibo said, his chin up and defiant.

Qui Gon regretfully watched the pair of them climb into the speeder and depart into the waving plains of colfillini, the moon glinting cold along the speeder's curved sides.

"We will give you a full tour of the plantation in the morning," Raxis promised the inspector. "My men will show you whatever you wish to see."

"Thank you," he responded. But he had already seen too much.


	5. Chapter 5

**Field of Dreams**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

The endless fields of giant green and red stalks rolled away on either side of the speeder. The Antarians assigned to be Qui Gon's guides prattled on, reciting facts and figures and explaining harvesting and cultivation methods and the operating procedures of the massive agricultural concern: export statistics and the natural history of the colfillini plant and the unique climate of Antar 4. The Jedi listened with a corner of his mind – sometimes even memorized pabulum had its value – but devoted the greater part of his attention to making his own observations and considering what he had already witnessed.

The planned retribution for Ibo's insolence last night was worrisome. It suggested that the reputed labor abuses here on the plantation were far more than that – indeed, it smacked of the basest slavery. Whatever legal loophole Raxis and Nolid had created for themselves with the farcical "volunteer corps," there could be no doubt their practices were absolutely forbidden within Republic boundaries. The difficulty was enforcement- if the prime minister on Antar did not push hard for justice, there was little the Republic could do to intervene without seriously compromising the system's sovereignty.

What they needed was hard evidence – enough to condemn the brothers outright, not simply to provoke an endless string of further investigations. That task had been left in Obi Wan's hands. Qui Gon felt confident his apprentice could swiftly and effectively ferret out examples of abuse. Obi Wan had a knack for getting to the heart of a problem. He was more concerned by the potential danger of his Padawan's position. He faced considerable risk just as a field hand – last night's events had demonstrated that – but even greater risk should his identity be discovered. The young Jedi walked a dangerous line between provoking abuses and accidentally revealing himself. The plantation owners would not be friendly to unwanted and prurient intruders. As Mandirly's disappearance suggested.

And that was another thorny problem. The Alderaanian had evidence against the plantation already; its location was unknown, presumably to the brothers as well as the official government. If Mandirly was in captivity – as he must be – then to what extent woud Raxis and Nolid go to pry information about the damning holodocumentary out of him? And how long would the Alderaanian resist? The Force urged him to locate the missing man - time was running out. But where in this endless sea, this unimaginable sprawl of green and red, could he be? The Force did not offer specific guidance.

He would have to be patient.

They passed one of a thousand identical duraplast huts dotted over the landscape. These were, he was told, the work unit shelters, though he saw no workers inside them. The entire labor force, he was informed, would be out in the fields. It was a harvesting day, and there was much work to be accomplished. As the speeder made a casual circuit of the southern portion of the farm, where the central processing and business functions were located, the Force unaccountably darkened and tautened with the echo of fear, with thousands of tiny suffering voices stifled beneath an overarching veil of malice. But as they passed a certain colfillini field, recently tilled and apparently left fallow, a blank void in the surrounding masses of vibrant life, the darkness tightened into an almost painful tension. His flesh crawled.

This had been the site of an outrage, he was certain.

In the blink of an eye, the speeder had flown past the innocent looking plot of land. The sensation abated. Qui Gon leaned back in the passenger seat and ignored the continuous babbling of his guides. He had found a starting point for their investigation.

* * *

><p>Work began before dawn. The workers in the newest labor unit were supplied with tools and equipment and told to harvest a field of colfillini with vibroscythes. A foreman followed the rows of sweating "volunteers" at a leisurely pace, collecting the felled stalks with a repulsordrive gatherer, a large flat machine outfitted with a grappling claw and a broad deep cargo bed. The stalks, they were told, would be transported to a threshing facility many klicks distant.<p>

"_This_ field is yours, Ibo," the boss laughed, shoving a scythe into the young field worker's hands and pointing a hand out across a huge expanse of waving colfillini."Since I can't trust you not to fight with other people, or to set a set a good example with your manners, you get to work alone today. Don't slack off, or I'll have your skin. Got it?"

Ibo gripped the handle of his long tool, holding it upright like a pike. The scent of colfillini stalks was sticky-sweet; the sugary sap of felled stalks in adjacent fields wafted n the air, a strange perfume. He squinted against the piercing rays of morning sun just breaking over the tops of the green and red leaves. He placed a hand on his hip, making sure the micro-recorder inside his waistband was active and broadcasting. Qui Gon had planted a relay device at the Colfico headquarters, and should be receiving a continuous transmission for compilation as evidence.

"When do I get a break?" he asked.

"When you _finish," _the Anatarian scoffed, and swept away on his speeder bike to harass and intimidate some other worker.

When the whine of his bike's intakes had faded into the distance, Ibo gazed round at the field assigned to him. It was far, far larger than one single worker could reasonably be expected to finish in a day. He frowned, contemplating what punishment might await one who failed to complete an assigned task. It would not, he was confident, be the equivalent of a calm but firm reprimand from a disappointed Jedi master. Obviously, he had been set up to fail..and pay the price.

That, of course, was irksome - undercover or not. His hand tightened around the scythe's handle. He switched on its power cell, and the tall implement hummed loudly as its curving upper blade vibrated. It was unwieldy and crude compared to his elegant lightsaber, and he felt a pang of longing for his lovingly hand-crafted weapon. But that was not to be. Not here, not now. He took a long experimental swing through the nearest stalks and watched them fall gracefully to earth, sending up a sweet trail of scent, their severed edges bleeding a thick white sap. He was not used to that, either, A saber burned clean and pure – it did not leave ragged bruises and scars, nor an oozing trail. There was something revolting about the corpses he had just felled, the helpless victims of his blade.

Focus. Where was his focus? Here and now, he reminded himself. He had perhaps not eaten nor slept enough, or perhaps it was an unfortunate effect of practicing the tai vordrax meditations too thoroughly. He made an effort to narrow and tighten his attention. Breathe. Do what you must. It was….silly and childish, at the very least, to allow the sight of falling plants to evoke a fluttering Force memory of other, more gruesome death. His mind seemed determined to spin out into time and space. He hauled it back to the present moment and hefted the scythe again.

Besides an anchor for his drifting center, he also had an immediate need to harvest this field. He had little desire to find out first hand what unpleasant punishment awaited him should he fail. The vibroblade was very like a long quarterstaff. Like all Jedi students, he had trained with the weapon in the dojo, though it was by no means a preferred combat style for him. Still, it would be wise to perfect those skills while he had a chance. He whirled the tool over his head, feeling the heft of it, then adjusted his grip to its awkward weight. He made a test swing through the next clump of colfillini; his graceful motion cut through their stalks as a fish cuts through water. He bared his teeth in satisfaction and crouched into a drop stance – the opening position for the only long-pike kata he knew well. Three long breaths. The Force. And the dance began.

The colfillini field was razed down in one long, fluid motion. He strove for perfection, to occupy the center of a flawless sphere, an imaginary circle where the exchange of attack and defense, of all possible movements, was exquisitely balanced. In its mastered form, this sphere would represent an impenetrable and omnipresent unity. His execution was, admittedly, far from perfect, but the Force flowed freely, and his blood ran joyfully in his veins and his heart pounded and his muscles ached and sang at the same time. And the weird tremors of disturbance he had felt earlier dissipated into the Light. The kata he chose was one devoted more to the cultivation of pure form than raw power, although the ever-increasing precision and rapidity of its performance might have inspired either admiration or terror in an outside observer. The colfillini, happily, could not appreciate the display of skill put on for their benefit; they were simply felled in wave upon wave, contributing to the perfect choreographed rhythm of the dance.

Deep in the Force, he did not sense time slipping by. The sun was past its zenith when he finished, flourishing the vibrating scythe into its final position, parallel to the ground, balanced and still, his feet planted apart and firmly rooted in the soft earth. Sweet sap and the sharp odor of sheared plant stems mingled in the warm air, which now seemed heavy with an energy that slowly coiled back into its hidden center, a dragon returning to rest. He switched the blade off, appreciating the cessation of jarring motion beneath his hands. The sun overhead was gloriously bright, its heat wicking away the rivulets of moisture running down his back. He breathed.

The whine of the returning bike's engines disrupted the perfect moment and his silent reverie.

The labor boss pulled the bike to a halt and slipped off the seat with a dumbfounded expression on his creased face. He peered suspiciously at Ibo Bikenowa, who was resting his weight against the scythe handle, and panting, soaked in sweat.

"Kriffing slag!" the Anatarian hissed, regarding the tidy devastation all around them. He loomed over the young human angrily. "Who helped you with this, eh?"

"Nobody helped me. I'm a hard worker, sir."

"No _kriff._ Where in the galaxy did you learn to work like that?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Can I have a break now? I'm tired out."

The foreman leered and spat to one side. He shaded his eyes with one coarse hand. "No break, Ibo. You're gonna do some more work for me, since you're so good at it. What do you think of that, eh?"

"I think that's unfair! It's against labor regulations! I've been working since dawn, and I haven't eaten or rested since then. I should have a break. I feel _ill."_

"Too bad," the foreman sneered, tossing a water bottle at the young worker. "That's all you need for now. And for your information, _volunteers_ aren't covered under Galactic labor regulations. You're a volunteer, remember? Now climb up."

Ibo obeyed, with a great show of reluctance, stealthily checking the microrecorder again as he mounted the speeder bike behind the cruel Antarian. So far, so good.

* * *

><p>"Ah, yes, it is a pleasure to be able to help the Republic's official inspector in any capacity I am able," the grayish skinned Nemoidian lisped, his orange eyes shifting side to side as the nicitating membranes rapidly fluttered over them. The lawyer wrung his hands inside the voluminous sleeves of his costly robe, and his gaze returned to Qui Gon's stern face.<p>

"I am glad to hear that," Qui Gon told the nervous barrister. "One small matter you might be able to help with – could you tell me the substance of the dispute between your client and Tayvor Mandirly?"

The Nemoidian gestured to a polished table, the dominating feature of the conference room inside Colfico headquarters. A skylight let noontide light filter down on the glassy surface, highlighting the brushed texture of the synthetic tabletop and casting distorted reflections of scudding clouds across its length. Qui Gon drew out a chair and sat down slowly, his eyes never leaving the Nemoidian's flat face.

"I was asked to represent Colfico concerning a matter of media representation. It would appear that Mandirly was compiling a slanderous journalistic piece – you understand, a piece of sensationalism – which he intended to broadcast widely in the surrounding systems and submit to the Republic as evidence for an official censure. Naturally, my clients felt that such exaggerations and half-truths would prove damaging to the economy and peace of this entire quadrant. They were very eager to make sure their legal rights were upheld."

"I see," the Jedi replied levelly. "And a Trade Federation lawyer was the natural choice."

The Nemoidian ignored or missed the sarcasm. "Of course," he agreed soothingly. "The Trade Fedeeration has in interest in seeing the reputations of its best clients preserved intact. Freedom of speech in the Republic is one, very honorable, tradition – but when unfounded accusations threaten to disrupt order and peace –"

"You mean profit margins," Qui Gon interjected quietly.

"There is no need to be uncouth," the lawyer objected in his nasal voice.

"Forgive me if I caused you unintended offense," the Jedi countered smoothly, leaning back in his chair slightly. "Tell me, were you able to see this piece of journalism yourself, to ascertain its slanderous nature?"

The barrister flicked his eyes open and shut several times and spread his hands wide before himself. "I did – Mandirly showed me the holorecording personally. But he refused my reasonable request to desist. When I informed him of the legal actions available to my clients, he became…most irate. Very unfortunate."

"And that was the last interview you had with Mandirly?"

The Nemoidian made a great show of innocent wonder. "Why? Is something wrong? Has something happened?" His mouth worked up and down comically as he struggled to pronounce the syllables in Basic. The standard Galactic language favored those with humanoid palettes and tongues – the heretoid and insectoid species often looked and sounded ridiculous when they spoke it, through no fault of their own.

"I hope not," the Jedi growled softly.

"Well," the lawyer huffed. "That makes two of us." He made a deep and insincere bow and left the room with great dignity, his oversized hat teetering atop his narrow head.

Qui Gon remained a few more moments, watching the clouds float across the tabletop in an inverted dome of sky. The Force was as full of shifting addies as the air currents of Antar 4's atmosphere. Raxis and Nolid were guilty; the Nemoidian was lying; Mandirly was in danger; and his Padawan, somewhere out there, was stirring up trouble again, blowing hot breath across embers not yet extinguished by time. The whole situation was ready to go up in flame at any instant.

He sighed and rose. It was time to attend to…paperwork.


	6. Chapter 6

**Field of Dreams**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

"New irrigation channel needs to be laid right here," the foreman explained, casting a long, uniformed arm over another waving expanse of colfillini. The high afternoon sun beat down mercilessly upon the tall stalks of red and green, thickened the air with the heavy scent of sap and soil.

Ibi Bikenowa looked up at his assigned work partner – the same enormous Wookie he had glimpsed so briefly in the employment lines at the immigration center. They had ended up on the same farm, in the same labor unit…in the same predicament. The Wookie gave a low moaning growl of assent or complaint. It was hard to tell with Wookies. He didn't speak the language.

"Shut your ingrateful trap," the foreman sneered. "This is the easy part. We got most the trench cleared with an excavator, but the root systems in a few of these places will jam the machines drives. Since you two are such clever, industrious fellows, you can cut the roots out by hand. I sure am lucky to have such _exceptional_ volunteers in my work unit."

With these mocking words the Anatarian shoved a pair of axes and hooked implements into their hands and moved away. Not vibro-axes, even; just primitive tools wrought of hard metal. Ibo and the Wookie stood abandoned at one end of the massive ditch, gazing down the seemingly endless irrigation line, cut like a dark scar into the field at a slantwise angle. It was deeper than three meters, wide enough to accommodate the colossal durasteel pipe laying to one side. It would require repulsor cranes to lower the object into the ditch once the offending roots had been cut away. Jutting tangles of colfillini root thrust their way through the sides and floor of the rough hewn trench every few meters or so, as far as the eye could see.

"Let me guess…..we get a break when we _finish,"_ Ibo said to his companion.

Thankfully, his tall, shaggy compatriot seemed to understand Basic, for he made a mournful reply, one Ibo had no hope of deciphering beyond its general sentiment. The tall, hairy creature slid down the edge of the trench and began hacking at the nearest clump of roots. Ibo followed and selected a different batch of the stubborn colfillini fiber to work at.

He quickly realized this would be back-breaking labor. And there was no kata for crudely hacking massive vegetable matter out of clotted soil. He put raw muscle into it for a good half-hour, making almost no progress, then stopped to catch his breath and curse in a prolonged and eloquent manner that no Jed Padawan would ever employ in the presence of his master.

The Wookie had done better for himself, but unbent and let loose with a similar display of irritation.

Ibo leaned, panting, on his tool. The sun beat on them, wringing more sweat out of his pores, and prickling uncomfortably along back and shoulders. He had no shirt, and his complexion wasn't suited to prolonged intense exposure. It was going to mean a nasty sunburn in the end. This would never do. Halfway along this ditch he was sure to drop in his tracks – only to earn a savage punishment for "slacking off."

He looked sideways at the Wookie, at the matted tendrils of fur hanging like forlorn vines off the lanky frame. There was endless sorrow in the Wookie's small dark eyes. They looked heavenward, as though trying to pierce the dome of the sky. Perhaps he longed for his homeworld now. Ibo was close to it himself; he would give a great deal, if he allowed himself the selfish thought, to be wandering the paths of the Temple meditation gardens rather than slaving away in this Force-forsaken field.

He made up his mind. Focusing on the clump of roots sitting half-mangled before him, he reached through the Force to locate its hidden source – a cane of colfillini far overhead. He held out a hand and snapped his fingers shut, twisting his wrist. The plant above followed the motion, its stalk snapping and then bending in a graceful sideways twist. There followed the rustle of a tall stalk falling against its neighbors. He grabbed the nearest bit of root, and tugged – this time with muscle and the Force. The blasted thing _still_ did not budge – until the Wookie appeared to lend his strength. With a huge tug, the two workers yanked the root ball clear of the wall, bringing down a substantial pile of dust and rocks atop themselves.

The Wookie howled and complained in his own language while Ibo spat out grit and wiped his eyes clear.

"That was good," he remarked sarcastically to his companion, who gave a short bark of disgusted humor.

The young Jedi stood up slowly and looked down the trench. Without food and with barely enough water to sustain him, the task seemed impossible. It was designed merely to frustrate and exhaust them, to beat down and break their spirits.

He had no intention of cooperating with that. "How did you end up here?" he asked his tall, hairy colleague, shielding his eyes form the beating sun with one hand. "Did you show too much strength?"

The response was hard to interpret. "You know this is supposed to half kill us, don't you? And over time, completely kill us? I wonder whether the bosses ever have to pay out on those three year contracts."

An angry affirmative howl. "Well, let's take our break now since they certainly won't give us one later."

The Wookie sank down onto his haunches, back leaning against the wall of dirt. Ibo joined him, hissing as his sore and already sunburned back scraped against the uneven surface. But the coolness of the soil felt good. He was suddenly very thirsty, and very hungry, and very tired. Releasing a long breath, he let his head tip back against the soft surface. Overhead, clouds scudded and colfillini stalks waved gently. Here against the edge of the trench there was a thin shadow, some protection form the searching sun's eye. In the cool darkness, he closed his eyes and exhaled, drawing in the Force…

_A trench. A mass grave. Bodies kicked over the edge, sprawling atop one another, blank eyes staring upward at the scudding clouds, the waving colfillini._

He jolted upright, shaking away the uninvited vision. His breath was harsh in his ears. Blast it. _Tai vordrax…_ Force perceptions like that were supposed to be controlled. He had been practicing without developing proper mastery. Qui Gon would be most displeased.

But what had he just seen?

The Wookie was patting his shoulder in concern. He managed a smile of assurance, and the huge hairy being suddenly smothered him in a brotherly embrace. Fighting free of its dusty matted fur, he scooted back into the shade of the wall and calmed his breathing. He felt strangely vulnerable, as though the Force itself had just ambushed him. Maybe that was a common aftereffect. He swallowed, and it hurt because his throat was so dry. Focus.

He let himself sink back into a light trance, seeking comfort. Perhaps he could sense what Qui Gon was doing. The tall Jedi master was his anchor when he lost his own mooring. He simply needed to recenter himself, and then find a way to complete this task. But the Force seemed somehow taut, resistant….as though he were slipping over its surface rather than flowing in its depths.

Blast. That was his own fault, for breaking free of the vision so abruptly. Focus, Kenobi. Bikenowa. Whoever. He breathed in, slowly. Deeper. Deeper. Ignoring the trembling at the back of his mind, the shiver of another uninvited perception, he relaxed…broke through the surface, sank into the currents…

._A simple home. Mate, children. Hard times, desperation knocking at the door. Starvation beckoning. A tearful goodbye. The employment lines…a struggle. Kidnappers, and the work shelter. A death threat, wild plans of escape, broken hope, longing for the mate. The children. Sorrow._

A huge hand was shaking him awake. And the Wookie's large brown eyes appeared before his face, full of concern, wondering if the young human had fainted or had a seizure.

"I'm all right," Ibo choked out, gritting his teeth. Being shaken out of a trance was a surefire formula for migraine, but he wouldn't mention that troublesome fact to the Wookie. He was certain he had just glimpsed into the poor creature's memories. His heart twisted within him. He had to help. Somehow.

"We'll find a way out of this," he promised his new friend.

The Wookie moaned something softly under his breath- something dubious.

"Not just you. The whole work unit. All the work units. Everyone. I promise." It was brash promise and he knew it. He knew far better. But the Force had just dealt him two blows, two unexpected violations of his spirit, and he felt like striking back. He stopped.

No, that wasn't right. He just felt so….used. Helpless. Qui Gon hadn't warned him about that possibility when he had advised cultivating the unusual skill. Had he known? Or had he left his apprentice to struggle over it on his own, learning wisdom the hard way, as he so often did? He released another long breath, banishing at that moment he didn't dare reach into the Force again, for fear what it might show him. He just sat and rested.

After a while, the Wookie let loose a string of barks and ululations, and pointed up to the top of the trench. The whine of a speeder's intakes could be heard over the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze. The foreman was returning to check on their progress.

"You get to work," Ibo urged his companion, tossing an axe to him and springing to his own feet. He grasped the long hooked tool in two hands and brought the Force to bear on it, breaking it over his knee with a sharp jerk. The axe he buried as far as he could with a Force-enhanced swing into a jutting root. Then he stood, hands on hips, waiting defiantly. The Wookie observed these doings with a keening moan of worry, shaking his head in a _poor crazy idiot_ kind of way, and then went to work double time on his own root bundle.

The Antarian's head appeared over the ridge and gazed down at the Wookie. His gaze then tracked up the trench to where the human recruit was standing in outright stubborn defiance. He strode down the length of the irrigation channel until he was level with Ibo Bikenowa.

"Get to work!" he shouted down.

"No," the human replied softly.

"Now! Or you can face the consequences."

"I'm sorry. I can't do this work. You haven't even given us decent tools. Look, this one is broken and this one is stuck. These aren't fair working conditions."

"What you going to do about it?" the Antarian sneered.

"I resign.," Ibo decided.

"Resign?" The foreman laughed long and hard. "Resign?" he repeated, sliding down into the pit next to the young worker. "Sorry – not accepting your resignation. You got two choices – get back to work or get that whipping we still owe you from last night."

"I told you: I can't do this work. I'm not working any more. I quit."

The Antarian threw a hard punch, which missed. He threw another, and found his wrist locked in an iron grip. He kicked out, but instantly found himself lying winded on his back. He struggled to rise as the Wookie moaned in trepidation , a few paces distant.

Ibo stood over the fallen Antarian. "I want to quit," he insisted. "I have a right to do so."

The foreman's face twisted, and he punched a button on his comlink. Pushing to his feet with a grunt, he leered at the young worker. "You're a kriffing _fast_ little whipper-snapper aren't you, son? Tell you what. I've changed my mind."

Ibo's eyes narrowed.

"You just earned yourself a _real long_ break, Ibo," the Anatarian hissed, as two more speeders swiftly appeared at the trench's upper edge. Four hulking Colfico guards appeared over the rim and slid down into the dusty trench, hands grasping at their stun batons and other weapons.

The Wookie howled mournfully.

* * *

><p>Qui Gon switched off the comlink with a small frown. Obi Wan was not responding; but that might be for any number of reasons. He was most likely in the company of too many other workers. But the Force told a different story, one difficult to ignore. He sensed malice and acute, cruel pleasure.<p>

He tried the link again and still received no answer. He would have to let events ride themselves out. To go rushing to the fields now, on such a thin prompting, would be to abort their mission before it had properly begun. No doubt Obi Wan could handle whatever was thrown his way. Qui Gon would have to maintain a similar focus on their goal. He overrode the lock to Raxis' office with a subtle application of the Force.

"I'm sorry sir, but Raxis and Nolid are presently in a meeting," the secretarial droid rebuffed him. "May I leave a message?"

"No, that won't be necessary," Qui Gon replied, noting a pile of datapads stacked on a cabinet behind the droid. The Force shimmered slightly, a flutter at the edge of perception, nothing more.

"Have a pleasant afternoon," the mechanical clerk dismissed him.

Qui Gon turned to leave, accidentally sweeping his fingers thorugh the air in a casual motion as he did so. The pile of data pads went flying in every direction, cascading onto the floor and skittering across the office to bang into the opposite wall.

"Oh dear!" the secretary whined, servos whirring as it threw up its arms and bustled about, attempting to restore order.

"Allow me to help you," the Jedi offered, neatly stacking the pads back in place The droid shuffled around the desk again with another stack in its arms, not noticing as Qui Gon adroitly stowed one of the devices in his robe's wide sleeve.

"Thank you, and good day," the droid insisted, shepherding him out the door.

He strolled docilely down the corridor, slipped into an empty alcove on the second floor, where his purported inspection report was being compiled. Confident in his ineptitude, the Antarians had left him to his own devices. This had been his first opportunity to make private perusal of the brothers' inner sanctum.

The stolen datareader hummed into life in his hand. Momentarily, he was gazing at a flickering map of the plantation, with planting and fertilization schedules charted on a color coding system. Labor units assigned to each task were noted in the margins; crop statistics and dates appeared in a separate data field. He frowned. Mandirly's last documented journey to the plantation had been to investigate rumors of a pesticide spillage creating toxic conditions. His eyes sought over the map. There were innumerable possibilities….he stopped.

One field in particular stood out, marked with an innocent date and work unit number. Near the southern extremity, where the threshing and packaging facilities were located, it was nothing but a speck in the vast maze of fields. But he remembered feeling a disturbance in the Force when he had passed this place on his tour yesterday evening. It had to be the connection.

He thumbed the comlink again, feeling a strange urgency. They did not have much time, his instincts told him. Still no answer from Obi Wan.

Despite all his reasoning to the contrary, despite three deep calming breaths, he had to admit that he had a bad feeling about this.


	7. Chapter 7

**Field of Dreams**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7<strong>

"There you go, smart ass," the Antarian foreman smirked. Two of the burly hired guards threw the recalcitrant laborer down on the soft earth of a freshly tilled field, face first. The boy grunted as he hit the ground, but he didn't stir, or offer any sarcastic commentary or disrespectful remarks. The Antarian grinned to himself, his eyes resting with satisfaction on the criss-crossing pattern of welts and cuts on Ibo's bare back. The tattoo of the gundark charioteer was oddly mangled by smears of blood, the phosphous lines glimmering gently in the two moon's light, making the wet stains and purpling bruises left by the whip seem to glimmer, too.

"He's fixed," one of the thugs snorted. "Shoulda done his front side, too."

"Next time," the foreman promised idly. He had plenty of tricks in his book. A good, long whipping, now – with the recipient properly gagged and bound – that was a tried and true practice, as effective for most species in the galaxy as it was for the trained akk dogs which roamed the colfillini fields at night.

"Pleasant dreams," the other guard chuckled nastily. "Better start running. …If the akks find you out here, smelling like fresh meat…hell's moons, boy, I don't even want to think about it."

The Anatarians departed, chortling and snuffling their amusement. The speeders kicked up a cloud of dust and colfillini husks behind them. The high pitched whine of the intakes died away in the distance.

The young field worker lay still for a few more minutes, savoring his freedom, if such it could be called. Breathe out the pain, breathe in strength. He breathed in a good deal of loamy earth, too, but the soft caress of soil against his face was strangely pleasant. The dirt had a rich, earthy aroma, tinged with the sweet grass scent of colfillini – and the bitter tincture of sticky blood.

In. Out. He dared to roll over a little, push himself up. The comlink recorder was still in place. It had captured every moment of the last few hours, particularly the last half-hour or so. The Antarians had amused themselves greatly at his expense, commenting on the proceedings in an obscene and sadistic fashion. There was enough evidence of vile abuse in that recording to satisfy any judge, he supposed.

But, Force help him, he was not agreeing to any more of these bantha-brained undercover assignments ever again.

The concealed comlink vibrated, for the tenth time this evening. Finally able to answer it, he thrust a finger against its tiny transmit switch and activated it.

Qui Gon's voice was thick with relief. "There you are. I'd begun to worry." Qui Gon never worried, so that was mildly alarming in and of itself.

Ibo grimaced wryly. "I was beginning to worry too," he said, clearing his throat. His voice came out a bit rasping, husky.

A meaningful pause. "Are you all right? What have you been doing out there?" the Jedi master demanded, with an undercurrent of concern.

"Collecting evidence," his Padawan answered, darkly amused. He squinted through the darkness at the waving colfillini fields on every side. "We can make a very strong case for abusive labor practices. _Very _strong."

"Well done," Qui Gon murmured. "There is something else I need you to do. Are you able to leave the work shelter tonight without being missed?"

The young Jedi snorted softly, looking around at the lonely expanse on every side. "That shouldn't be a problem."

"The Trade Federation is involved in this affair. I fear that they may be helping Raxis and Nolid suppress Mandirly's evidence, possibly keep him in captivity. We must find him before an official move is made to arrest the brothers, else his life might be forfeit."

"Yes, master – but have you discovered where they are holding him?"

"Not yet. I want you to retrace his steps. He came to the plantation the last time to look at a toxic spill in a particular field. I believe I know which one."

"You want me to go there? But…with all due respect, master, it is unlikely to yield anything useful. Raxis and Nolid will surely have eradicated any evidence – particularly if Mandirly wished to make the event public knowledge."

"I am aware of that," Qui Gon answered patiently. "But I want you to go there anyway. Search in the Force. You may be able to discover something- perhaps a clue to Mandirly's whereabouts."

The Padawan hesitated. "My mastery of _tai vorderx_ perception is not complete," he said, carefully. "I do not think-"

"A man's life is at stake. You must do this; we have little else to go on, and few other means of finding him."

That was a fair point. Setting his personal reluctance aside, he nodded. "Send me the location," he said heavily.

"Good. Report back when you are done."

The field in question lay in the southern portion of the plantation. He had a vague idea of his present whereabouts, near his assigned work station in the eastern quadrant. The distance between was immense, far too great to traverse on foot. He would have to appropriate one of the huge farming machines or repulsor-tractors left sitting in the fields. Gingerly rising to his feet, Ibo set off at a brisk pace across the field, heading for the grid of intersecting paths between fields.

As he walked, he reached out into his surroundings, seeking for a sign of approaching akks. Such single-minded beasts would leave a distinctive trace in the Force. He would be aware of them long before they caught his scent. At least, he hoped this was true. And if the Force was with him, he would find a vehicle to commandeer before the dogs even came near.

At least he was alone and in little danger of being intercepted by an Antarian or any other sentient. The plantation owners left security to the packs of wild dogs which prowled over the fields' expanse at night. They were trained to attack and kill intruders on sight – his captors earlier had regaled him with several graphic tales of workers whose corpses had been found stripped to the bone by the ravenous hunters. Another altogether charming aspect of agrarian life here on Antar. He was growing quite fond of it.

Apparently the Force had it in for him today, because he had not covered much ground, and had not yet seen any sign of an abandoned farming vehicle, when he heard the group of massive predatory animals trailing behind him His hand went habitually to his left hip, where his saber should have been, but most inconveniently was _not;_ and then kept walking, every nerve tightening into battle awareness. The confrontation was inevitable, but he chose to delay it as long as possible.

Soon enough the pattering of padded feet and the snuffling grunts of the dogs were audible only a dozen meters behind him. They had scented him, no doubt, and found the alluring aroma of blood and sweat to much too resist. He tensed further. A bit closer. Breathe. He melted into the Force, breathed it in. Closer. The cunning dogs were fanning out in the fields around him, hoping to surround their quarry. The rows of colfillini adapted themselves beautifully to stealth and ambush. Closer…

The first akk lunged at him from the left, and was sent hurtling back into its hunting companion with a powerful Force push. The bodies slammed together, rolled into the rustling stalks with a yelp and a growl. Another dog jumped in from the right, only to discover that the prey had leapt over its own mighty bound, somersaulting once in midair and landing far ahead on the narrow path between two fields. The animal whipped around , teeth bared, and ran in hot pursuit.

Obi Wan dodged and wove through the rows of plants, following a sinuous and random pattern – but the akks would not give up, and proved every bit as fast and agile as he was. There was truly nowhere to escape here in the vast flat expanse of planted fields, and it was unlikely the akks would tire of the chase before he did. He could practically feel the breath of the leader on his heels when he came to sudden halt, yanking a tall cord of plant fiber back with him and letting it go, smashing it straight into the lead dog's eyes. The creature howled and fell back, writhing; the next akk plowed into its body in a snarling heap of teeth and fur. The rest of the pack slowed, and approached him in a steady circle, long hackles raised and teeth gleaming white in the moons' pale glow. A low, resounding growl filled the air.

He yearned, with immoderate longing, for his 'saber.. This situation was _beyond_ vexing.

The akks surged forward as one, howling murderously. The Force exploded bright within him. One dog crashed into the next; another he met head-on, rolling its weight over one shoulder. He dove beneath the jaws of another, slammed his feet into its ribcage and kicked hard as it sailed over him. He twisted, rolled past the fourth, seized the next one's muzzle with the Force and slammed it, mercilessly, into the earth, shouting out with the effort. The animals slewed round, pain and confusion stoking their fury to greater heights.

He ran again, pushing himself to his limits, dashing through the whipping avenues of leaves and stalks, pounding over the soft earth with the hunters hard on his tail. He veered left, right, changing tack and soaring far ahead in a Force propelled leap when they came too near.

There. At last. A huge shape loomed ahead – a harvesting machine, settled amid a razed field. He flew toward it, the slavering akks scrambling madly through the churned earth behind him. The foremost howled, leapt forward, slammed into him. They went down in a flailing ball, skidded through soft dirt, rolled. Obi Wan seized his attacker by the throat, held the snapping jaws away from his face, felt the thing's massive paws thrash across his chest. Oozing spittle dribbled over its curved teeth.

Two more dogs rushed forward for the kill. With a howl to match the savage one of his foe, he summoned the Force and hurled the beast's body off his chest and into the new attackers. Gasping, he twisted onto his feet and jumped, sailing through the air to land with a breath-jolting impact on the machine's upper deck.

The akks howled and flung themselves against the massive equipment's repulsor arrays, unable to climb its polished sides. He paused to look down on them one last time, wiping a trickle of blood from his nose with the back of one hand, and slipped into the enclosed cab.

A minute later,the vast machine was rumbling off across the fields, flattening stalks beneath its powerful repulsors as it glided over the moonlit waves of colfillini. The akks howled in defeat and despair, their voices rising in concerted lament to the pitiless skies.

* * *

><p>The journey to the distant field took several hours, lumbering along in the slow-moving harvester. Colfico's endless sprawl of land spread in every direction, silvered by the setting moons. The night wore on into a darkness punctuated only by tenuous starlight and an occasional gust of cold wind. Adrenaline ebbing, Ibo realized that his back and shoulders were, to say the least, uncomfortable. Every shifting motion of his arms as he maneuvered the hulking vehicle through the plains of colfillini sent a thrill down his spine and echoed in dull throbs across bruised ribs.<p>

He took a few minutes to meditate before he climbed out of the cab. The place Qui Gon had indictaed was nothing more than a barren stretch of dark earth, freshly tilled. The clumps of soft soil mixed with ground chaff and stalk fiber. The ground was carved into neat rows, troughs and crests, the treads of heavy machinery still striped across the churned-up earth. The sweet scent of crushed colfillini mingled with the soil's bitter-rich, damp aroma. Nightcrawlers writhed and wriggled underfoot, turning the earth over in their tiny maws. A few dark-winged moths fluttered by lazily in the night breeze.

It was empty here. There was nothing to see or feel. At least…in the _now._

He let himself remain in the _now_ for a while. Part of him did not really want to attempt a Force-enhanced perception of this place. He had already been subject to uninvited visions today, not to mention an undeserved and nasty _beating._ As he had told Qui Gon earlier, before they reached Antar, this new and difficult skill was for him terribly inconsistent. He might see nothing, and he might see too much. There were Jedi – he had met one or two – who could take what amounted to a Force reading off any given object or place, as easily as dipping their fingers in a shallow basin, as though time had left little pools of energy behind, puddles of memory and meaning which the attentive might discover. His experience was different: when he attempted to find the echo of things in the Unifying Force, he either failed miserably, or else plunged into deep waters, as though falling in over his head.

He sighed. There was no use procrastinating. Sinking cross-legged to the soft earth, he pressed a palm against the soft, gritty soil. He drew in a long breath, then another, even slower one, and closed his eyes. Gradually his posture relaxed until he sat as still as a delicate bubble atop an unruffled pond, as quiet as the slowly munching worms. He reached into the Force, where the recent past still thrummed a faint echoing note in the plenum. It was as though the present were but the taut surface of this fathomless pool, rippling beneath him; for a moment longer he floated, skimming across the surface, peering with a distant flutter of dread into depths below.

Then, in a decisive heartbeat, he plunged through into cold memory.

_Workers, laboring to repair something – a broken machine. Toxic chemicals spilling form its ruptured tanks – yellow foam and spray, caustic, deadly. An Antarian foreman and a crew of guards shouting over the din. Threatening – shoving one or two laborers harshly back into the mess of leaking chemicals and crushed colfillini. The machine upright but still damaged. Moans and cries form the injured, the scalded and spattered victims. Poison, chemical burns – the Force, lacerated with their pain. No medical help arrived. A tall Anatarian consulting with the others. A curt order. And then blaster rifles, drawn with cold and remorseless purpose, cutting short the cries of pain and pleas for help._

_A trench. A mass grave. Bodies kicked over the edge, sprawling atop one another, blank eyes staring upward at the scudding clouds, the waving colfillini. The rumble of a heavy tiller, turning over the earth, burying the bodies amidst the crushed colfillini, smoothing over the soil until it was a clear sweep of deep brown, stark beneath the setting sun's red rays._

_Silence. Moonlight, and the placid worms, chewing their way through soil, through bone, content and mindless…_

He broke free, as a drowning man breaks the surface of dark water, and lay shivering violently. His heart throbbed violently, in rhythm with his aching back, protesting the sudden shattering of the tai vordrax trance. His belly churned with revulsion. He struggled to his feet and let his gaze seek upwards, among the stars – the pitiless, eternal stars which had observed all this without compassion.

The Antarian in the vision had been Raxis. Raxis was a monster, an affront to the Force itself. If ever a being deserved to die, it was he. Anger swelled in his breast, and he breathed it out, releasing its first outraged onslaught with difficulty. Other emotins swirled muddily beneath the anger – but he pushed them down, away. A Jedi did not indulge in sentiment. He did his duty. He activated his comlink, and waited several minutes for Qui Gon to reply, shaking with cold though the night was warm.

"Padawan." At leats the Jedi master answered.

"The field. I am there. I saw –" But here words temporarily failed him.

"Yes? What happened there?" Qui Gon's voice was steady, familiar, serene.

He used Qui Gon as his firm center. "There was a chemical spill. The workers were forced to clean it up. In the process, many were grievously injured. Raxis ordered them rounded up and shot. They are buried beneath the field."

Qui Gon uttered what sounded like a strong oath in a language Obi Wan did not know. His disgust made a small tremor in the Force, a cresting wave which subsided quickly into self control. "That must be what Mandirly discovered. No wonder Nolid and his brother wished to silence him," he said in a flat tone.

There was a pause as Qui Gon weighed their options. "An excavation of that field will provide the government here with more than enough evidence. I think our task here is nearly finished."

"I can leave?" The young Jedi cringed at his own voice. He had not meant to sound so eager.

Another hesitation. "I will speak to the Antarian authorities in the morning. But I do not wish to make a move on Raxis and Nolid until we have found Mandrily. If the brothers hear news of their impending arrest, they will have no reason to keep him alive. Will your disappearance raise suspicions?"

Obi Wan released a bitter breath of laughter. "Considering they left me in the fields to be torn to shreds by akks? I don't think so."

"I see." Qui Gon did not sound pleased. "I want you to keep your head down. See if you can locate Mandirly. I am certain he is somewhere on the plantation – check the threshing and storage facilities, any outbuildings."

"Yes, master. I can do that."

"Good. And be careful. Do you understand? I sense danger on the horizon."

"I do, as well."

Qui Gon sighed. "May the Force be with you."

When they had cut the link, Ibo walked slowly through the fields of colfillini, heading in the direction of the shipping warehouses near this field. He would need to steal a speeder bike to conduct his investigation, and find a place to hide during the morning's first bustling activities. Nobody would be looking for Ibi Bikenowa - indeed, he might be presumed dead already. But he hated to think what might befall him should he be discovered at liberty, prying into the plantation's dark corners and darker secrets. Some things were better left unknown.


	8. Chapter 8

**Field of Dreams**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8<strong>

Qui Gon was not pleased to discover that the Trade Federation litigator was present in the Prime Minister's offices.

Pollis Masa-Tu wrung his hands together in distress as the Jedi master presented the evidence gathered by his apprentice. The recording played itself out, with pauses between incidents, building its ugly way to what was unmistakably a savage beating. Though there was no video image, the laughter of the Antarian foremen, their taunting jests, and the snap and dull thud of a whip against flesh were easily recognized. Qui Gon kept his face carefully contained; the Nemoidian blinked rapidly and shook his head.

"Such evidence is flimsy," he objected in his peculiar nasal whine.. "It could be faked. And there are questions about the legitimacy of your methods. How did you obtain this so-called evidence?"

"That is irrelevant," Qui Gon told him. "I also have a datapad which contains the drafts of several illegal work contracts."

"Also questionable," the Nemoidian scoffed. "A good lawyer would make short work of your ridiculous documents and dramatics."

"There is also a toxin- contaminated field on the planatation," Qui Gon informed to the Prime Minister, ignoring the Nemoidian's arguments. "If it is excavated, you will discover there the remains of several dozen sentients, murdered by Raxis and Nolid."

"These are outrageous accusations!" the lawyer raged. "Prime Minister, I demand that you send this biased Republic inspector away. The Senate wishes to put pressure on this system for economic reasons, and because there is an unreasonable prejudice against our planetary government. Do not be deceived by this fool's lies." He swept from the room in high dudgeon, his dark robes billowing behind him as he stormed off.

The Antarian premier sank heavily into his well-padded chair. "What do you propose we do, master Jedi?" he asked, visibly wilting.

"I want you to obtain a court order for the arrest of Raxis and Nolid, and to have your security forces waiting. You asked for help resolving this matter; you must follow through with the resolution. I only ask that you wait upon my word before acting. I believe Tayvor Mandirly is being held on the plantation. If the brothers suspect an arrest, they might act decisively."

The Prime Minister blanched. "Then we will delay, by all means," he muttered. "I must repeat the Trade Federation representative's question, though: how did you obtain this evidence?" He gestured helplessly to the holo-recorder and the datapad. "It seems impossible."

"There is another Jedi on the plantation as we speak, undercover. This is substantially his work, and I fear he has paid dearly to obtain it."

Pollis Masa-Tu grimaced and dragged two hands over his face. "This is far worse than I anticipated," he moaned. "I did not think Raxis and Nolid had gone so far….I did not think a forcible arrest would be necessary…we thought perhaps a reprimand and a fine – enough to satisfy Republic law…an arrest might be problematic."

Qui Gon splayed his hands on the minister's broad desk and leaned over the cowardly Antarian. "You must arrest the brothers and bring them to justice. There is too much at stake, and my apprentice is too deeply invested in this investigation to see it nullified by your hesitance. If you require assistance apprehending the brothers, we will capture them for you. But your government must carry through with the prosecution."

The premier cringed, caught between fear of the plantation owners and their powerful friends, and fear of the Jedi and the Republic. At last he nodded weakly. "Yes, yes, of course we must. I will submit the order to the magistrates and request an emergency security team. They will be ready when you are."

"Thank you," Qui Gon breathed, not quite trusting the Antarian's words. "I hope that will be soon."

* * *

><p>On his way out, he was accosted by the Trade Federation lawyer, who had laid a simpering ambush in the corridor. "Ah, inspector," he wheezed, hands folded together in an expression of false serenity. "The Trade Federation would like to offer you an incentive to treat this matter as an internal affair on our client's plantation."<p>

"You mean a bribe?" Qui Gon inquired politely. "The Republic and the Antarian government did not authorize me to accept bribes."

The Nemoidian's nicitating membranes flicked over his eyes several times in distress. "I did not intend to suggest a _bribe_," he said, affronted, "Such a suggestion is highly distasteful! I am merely pointing out that the cost of prosecution is very high, and the government might wish to allow my clients to handle their own disciplinary matters unimpeded. That is a right which corporate entities on this planet have, you are aware."

"Hm," the Jedi remarked. "Except when the corporation itself is the subject of prosecution. Raxis and Nolid are the ones responsible for these outrages."

"A single ugly incident involving a single troublesome worker does not constitute a string of outrages, if you will forgive me," the Nemoidian said, without an ounce of compunction. "As I said, a good lawyer could take your case apart in minutes…and my clients have a _very_ good lawyer." He smirked, his lipless mouth quirking into a jagged curve.

"I have no doubt," Qui Gon replied, unperturbed. "What if I were to tell you that I have Tayvor Mandirly's evidence in hand as well as my own?"

"Impossible!" the Nemoidian snorted. "The evidence was destroyed!"

The Jedi raised his eyebrows. "Interesting. I was not aware that you knew where was or what had happened to his holo-files."

The Nemoidian flushed an angry white under his grey and green mottled skin. "I don't know anything about Mandirly," he hissed. "You should not listen to rumors, inspector."

"He is still on that plantation, is he not?" Qui Gon pressed. "Being interrogated to ascertain whether he has further evidence against your employers?"

"I have no idea what you are babbling about – and this meeting is at an end," the lawyer huffed. He abruptly turned and fled the scene, his costly attire and oddly shaped hat brushing the sides and top of the doorframe as he exited.

Qui Gon deftly threw a small tracking beacon onto the hem of his gown as it whipped around the corner. He would stay here, to insure that Pollis Masa-Tu did indeed sign the arrest warrant and gather a security squad together to effect the arrest. But the Nemoidian would, he felt certain, lead them to Mandirly. He had only to wait.

* * *

><p>The day wore on. Ibo Bikenowa endured its dragging course, slinking from shadow to shadow, field to field, staying out of sight. The sun rose high and beat down with even greater heat than the day before. He found a leaking irrigation pipe at which he was able to quench his searing thirst, though the cold liquid tasted of unknown minerals. He wondered whether it had chemical additives and then pushed the thought out of his mind. The Force would help him purge toxins from his system, if the need arose. Food he had not seen since the morning previous, and Jedi or not, the long fast in the aftermath of a hard day's work and a sleepless night did take its toll. His belly ached insistently, but there was nothing to be done about it. He tried entering a light trance in the middle of an empty field, sheltered by the waving colfillini, but the gentle hum of brewing danger in the Force allowed him no real refreshment. The shadows lengthened at an agonizingly slow rate, and still he had received no word from Qui Gon.<p>

At last the hidden comlink chimed. "Padawan. The Federation lawyer is headed for the house. Can you get yourself up there? I suspect he is meeting with Raxis and Nolid about Mandirly. This may be our only chance. Time is running short; the brothers will be suspicious after my meeting with the government this afternoon. We have forced their hand. I am in transit now. Stay in contact."

Relieved to be in action at last, the young Jedi jogged along empty path between two fields, the stalks of colfilinni overhead painted a crimson red by the setting sun. Insects swarmed and fluttered in the humid evening air, the buzz of their wings an echo of the strange vibrating expectancy in the Force. Yes, they were running out of time. He would not fail to locate Mandirly. If he could but find the missing Alderaanian, liberate him from whatever nightmare in which he had been embroiled, then all the deprivations and sufferings of this mission would be worth enduring.

He spotted the abandoned speeder a short distance from a warehouse. It was risky; there were many uniformed Antarians milling about the place. He found a row of stacked palettes, flat shipping platforms used by the repulsor convoys which carried the processed colfillini to the exporter's warehouses at the spaceport. Reaching into the Force, he surrounded the heavy stack of plastoid with tendrils of energy, felt their weight, grasped at them. With a grunt of released breath, he flung his hands outward and sent the towers toppling over, the huge shipping containers crashing to the dusty earth in an explosion of plastoid fragments and scattered chaff.

Antarians came running from every direction, leaving the speeder empty.

He dashed for the abandoned vehicle, capitalizing on the distraction. The expenditure of energy had left him a trifle winded – worrisome, but not yet dangerous. He vaulted over the speeder's side, landing on the pilot's seat. His fingers sought the ignition switch, the controls….they were locked. He needed a code key. _Blast, blast,_ _blast_. He racked his brains to remember how to hotwire one of these things. The panel cracked open beneath his prying fingers. There. Wires, a coupler, the power source. He pulled and twisted, and –

"Hey. What do you think you're doing?" A rifle butt pressed between his shoulder blades.

How in the Force did he not sense that coming? He must be more exhausted than he thought. Heart pounding, he turned a little in place, took a calming breath. "I'm…trying to get back to my work unit, sir," he improvised, attempting some mild mind influence to lend credibility to his story. "I was left out in the fields last night, and I got lost…the plantation's too big. I've been trying all day…"

The ruse worked. A second foreman shuffled up and leaned over the speeder's edge. "What's your labor unit?"

"Ossk 8, sir."

The newcomer made a short comm. call and then signalled the one still holding Ibo in place at the end of his blaster rifle. "Yeah, they're missing a worker. Got left to the dogs last night. Must be a pretty lucky piece of chisszk not to be dead. Boss says take him back over there and they'll deal with him for skipping out on work today."

He didn't need to fake the outrage. "What?"

The Antarian guffawed. "Avoiding work all day? Oh, boy, you don't know what's good for ya." He nudged the rifle into the youth's ribs, painfully. "And look at the decorations all over yer back already. You better be real good at groveling. Now get in back."

Ibo scrambled over the seats and took up a position in back, his captor settling in beside him with the rifle. The second Antarian slid into the pilots seat and revved the speeder's engines. "Ossk 8, that's eastern sector," he muttered, turning the vehicle into the sea of waving green and red.

Ibo waited ten minutes, until only the colfillini were their witnesses. He twisted, seized the rifle's barrel in his hands, used the Force to throw the unfortunate Anatarian out of the speeder as they flew by a row of waving stalks. The Antarian's cry of pain was lost in the wind. The driver slewed round, took a hard punch in the jaw, groped for his own weapon , and was similarly sent tumbling over the edge of the compact vehicle. Ibo jumped into his place, wrestled the shuddering craft under control and turned it in the direction of the main house, jamming the accelerator to full. He shot along the labyrinth of paths, recklessly navigating their intersections and cutting straight across recently harvested fields.

He left the stolen speeder a short distance from the headquarters and approached on foot, the rising moons casting the massive building in stark outline. The Force was with him: as he crouched in the shadow outside the harsh floodlights, he spotted the two brothers and their wobbling Trade Federation cohort emerging from the back entrance, headed for a sleek speeder parked behind the main house.

He sprinted back for his own vehicle, noting the unfamiliar burn in muscle and lung. He summoned the Force, let it fill him. A Jedi could draw strength from Life itself, if he needed to. And he certainly needed to. Tayvor Mandirly needed him to do this. He flew back into the driver's seat, pushed the speeder along, spotted the Antarian's craft disappearing between two fields, and followed at a cautious distance.

They drew near a threshing warehouse on the northern side of the plantation, one he had not yet seen. A windowless mass of duracrete, it looked more like the radiation dampers built around decayed generator housings on backworlds where proper disposal was not possible. He shuddered. Faceless, the blank white walls gleamed in the moonlight like bleached bones. He stopped a short distance away and slid out onto the soft earth.

He hit his comlink's transmit switch.

"Obi Wan. Where are you?"

"I've tracked them to a warehouse or storage barn on the northern side. I think they have Mandirly in there. I can feel it. Master…I think I should go in. The Force is very disturbed."

"I will be there soon," Qui Gon said. "Wait."

"There is great danger, master…I don't think there is time."

A long pause. "Do not underestimate these people, Padawan."

"I don't. I'm going to get inside, see what is happening. I'll contact you when I know."

"Be cautious, Obi Wan."

As he had said before, he didn't need to be told twice. But now the Force was twisting with danger, wringing his gut into knots and raking cold down his spine. Malice lingered in the air, as sickly sweet as the pervasive scent of crushed colfillini. He felt fear, too – mounting dread and defiance, the last desperate courage of a stubborn man. _Go, go, go_, the Force urged him. It was almost too late.

He crept forward, acutely aware that he did not have his saber, that his control was compromised by exhaustion. But an innocent man's life depended on him, and he would do what he could. He studied the bleak walls of the building; there were massive durasteel doors barring his way. Venting shafts punctuated the lower reaches at regular intervals, covered by heavy gratings. The air shimmered with heat where they opened into the outside world; but he would have to manage somehow. Hugging the wall, he scurried to the nearest. He spread his hands out along the riveted bands of durasteel, breathed in the Force. He pulled.

Nothing, only a creaking of metal. More power, more control He had to do this. Inside the building, somewhere deep inside, a horrific scream, a broken cry of agony. He went rigid, the Force blackening with fear. He breathed it out, trembling. The grating. He sank his mind into the cold metal, into the thick stone walls. Pull. Harder. _Harder!_

The grate ripped free of its moorings. He felt the Force tighten in warning, a lurching spurt of adrenaline in his belly….He was coming, as fast as he could. The edges of the venting shaft were hot, and burned where they grazed his bare skin. He hissed, slid forward, rolled into the bright light of the refinery. Machines roared and clamored on every side. He sprang to his feet. Here, so near, just around the corner. _Go, go, go._ Urgency beat double time with his racing pulse. Laughter and the harsh voices of Anatarians, straight ahead. What was he going to do? There were a dozen of them. He had no weapon. The Force burned with warning, with danger.

The Nemoidian's lisping voice could be heard, above the clank and hum of the machines.

"Never!" a man's voice replied, cracking with pain. _Danger, danger, danger!_

Obi Wan gathered himself for a leap, the urgent command of the Force hammering at him, insistent, painful, desperate -

…the shattering blackness that descended on the back of his head was almost a relief.

"Got 'im," a smug Antarian voice chortled.

He slid away from the laughter and the pounding machinery and the screams of danger, into the Force and silence.


	9. Chapter 9

**Field of Dreams**

* * *

><p><em>Caveat lector: The gruesome scene borrowed from Karen Miller's excellent book is contained herein ... not for the squeamish<em>

**Chapter 9**

Ibo Bikenowa opened his eyes. An interlocking pattern of trestles and support beams played dizzily before him for a moment, unfocused, then resolved into the high shape of a warehouse or factory roof.

For a moment he thought the insistent beating and throbbing sound which filled the air was inside his own head – but then he realized it emanated from the heavy machinery operating nearby. He was lying on something hard and unforgiving, and his hand and feet appeared to be bound with twisted industrial cable – excruciatingly tightly, at that.

_Not good. _He turned his head to the side and squinted through the dim light. It was quite dark but for the glowing control panels of the threshing machinery. It must be the dead of night outside – how much time had elapsed? He could smell the sweet tang of colfillini sap in the air, the musty heaps of the harvested stalks waiting to be sent through the thresher. There was also the choking scent of fertilizer or compost nearby. But no more screams, no more laughter. He was alone.

He hauled himself into a sitting position. A warm, wet trickle flowed form his hairline down the side of his face and mouth. Salty, metallic: blood. He strained against the cords but could not break them. He summoned the Force, but it flowed sluggishly around him, shying away from each successive beat of pain behind his temples. His limbs felt dreadfully heavy.

_Overdoing it…again._ His heart sank. Mandirly. He had been so close. Was the Alderaanian still alive? Where could he be? He had to find him before it was too late. He breathed out weariness, breathed in strength, calm. The Force trickled in, reluctant, disobedient. He closed his eyes. Please. Just one more time., Show me. Let the moment spread out into the past, into passing time.

He lay on this hard floor. Mandirly had been here. The Force shuddered with fear, with pain, with trembling resolve. He breathed. Deeper. Show me.

_A speeder. Hustling, pushing and prodding hands, a cry of pain. A Nemoidian. Antarian thugs. Raxis, Nolid. The thrum of the drives, the whipping wind. The stars passing overhead, reeling in their constellations, cold to his mute pleas for help._

Ibo gasped, and pulled free. Now his head felt as though a spike had been driven through it. He should not have done that. He drew in his calming, centering breath through clenched teeth. Oh, not good. His stomach heaved, and he was sick. On his own knees. Lovely.

Focus. Mandirly. They had taken him, out into the plantation, in the speeder. But which way? How was he supposed to know which way they had gone? He struggled some more, but he didn't have the strength to wriggle free, nor the control he needed to loosen the cords with the Force. Another question presented itself to his awareness. Why had they left him alive?

Well, that was obvious. He was being saved for what was euphemistically called "interrogation." That had him thinking hard. He had seen enough of the galaxy to have no wish to see more of it in that department.

A door slid open and three pair of booted feet approached. He struggled onto his feet, only to crash back to his knees as the dimly lit world blurred into near-incoherence again. He breathed, called on the Force. He only had a few seconds. The footsteps drew nearer. He leapt to his feet, pushed off, jumped high overhead, landed very precariously on a trestle, his bound ankles twisting treacherously beneath him. It would be easier to balance if his head weren't spinning. He crouched, waited.

"Where is that scum?" one of the Antarians shouted.

"He can't have got far!" another rumbled. Boots ran in different directions. Blood trickled down his face, dripped from his chin. He couldn't wipe it away. The Force held him rooted to the spot, barely breathing, sheltering himself in its light. Where was Qui Gon?

Floodlights speared through the darkness, shattering his refuge.

"There he is!" A blast pounded into the trestle where he stood, a half-second after he had jumped away. He landed again in an awkward crouch atop another piece of machinery. He reached into the Force, sent a crane arm careening across the space, knocking one Antarian into a wall, and nearly missing another. The third cursed and ran around the harvesting equipment, aiming the rifle upwards.

He jumped again, missing his landing on the next trestle and sliding awkwardly off, to crash with a thud upon the thresher unit.

"Over there! Don't kill him!" a voice shouted. He struggled upward, desperately casting about for the exit. He jumped again, landing on one shoulder and rolling along the top of a narrow beam. He could see the exit from here, the control panel. He could do it.

He breathed in, gathered the Force – and an electrical impulse shot through the beam on which he crouched, ripping like fire through every nerve. He spasmed, writhed, and fell, straight down, into a soft pile of leaves and crushed plant fiber. He forced air into his lungs, wildly fought for control over his shuddering limbs, his shaking muscles –

"I _said_ don't kill him yet!" A furious voice muttered. The silhouettes of three Anatarians appeared over the edge of the compost bin.

"Hell's moons," one of the guards hissed, grabbing him by one shoulder and hauling him roughly out. Another pair of hands grabbed his legs, and he was thrown roughly down on his back upon the hard floor. The leader took a handful of hair in one thickly knotted hand and slammed the prisoner's head backward.

"What's your real name, scum?" he demanded. "I'll bet to hells it's not Bikenowa."

He gasped in a wheezing breath, head screaming with renewed pain. The Force splintered and spun around him, a kaleidoscope of fragmented power. He floundered for breath, for his center.

"You'd better talk, boy, cause Nolid ain't as sweet and kind as we are. Who are you, really?"

"Where's Mandirly?" he choked out, in his turn. "What have you done with him?"

A boot connected with his groin, and he heard his own cry as though from a great distance. The splintered Force erupted with pain and spattered into black rainfall, time and image and instinct tangled into bright confusion.

"Who sent you?" the voice grunted, accenting the question with another solid jerk of his head against the floor.

"I did," a soft voice answered. The loud buzz of a lightsaber cut through the thrum of machinery, the roar of blood in his veins. Warm light drenched the dark oblivion, wrenched it back into wholeness. Qui Gon.

The Antarians released him, spun about. There was a scuffling, loud shouts, blaster shots echoing in the bright light. A flash of green, humming low and dangerous, rebounding shots, a scream, the howl of the saber again, a thud, a cry, and then silence. Qui Gon's blade thrummed deep in the cold air. A hiss, as it deactivated. The Jedi master knelt beside him.

"Master," Obi Wan gasped.

Qui Gon's hands were gentle. "I told you to stay out of trouble," he scolded softly.

"I try, master." The saber snapped again. He tensed as the searing blade came too near, melting the wire that bound his wrists and feet, leaving a stinging kiss of heat. He uncoiled, shaking.

Qui Gon held his head, carefully checked the wound. "It's not too deep, but you seem a little woozy. Hold still." There was the cold, sticky sensation of medical glue applied to the cut. Fingers gingerly searched his scalp for other injuries.

"Mandirly," Obi Wan panted. "They took him from here. Into the fields. We have to find him."

A hand pressed against his forehead, then his chest, his belly. "I'll find him," Qui Gon promised. "You're in no shape to-"

"I'm coming! They'll kill him, master! We have to find him before, before-"

"Shh." Qui Gon took his face between two hands. "Breathe."

Three breaths. The center. The Force.

"Take me outside. I can tell which way they went. I can do it."

The night air was warm. The moons smiled down sardonically, wan and waning on the gently rustling horizon. Obi Wan tipped his head back, eyes skyward. The stars burned overhead, cold and unfeeling in their constellations, their eternal map. He turned slowly in place. In the vision….he had seen….yes. They looked thus. He pointed. "They went that way."

Qui Gon did not challenge him. The Force shimmered with malice, with urgency, with certainty. They pelted to the speeder which Qui Gon had brought, shot across the fields in the direction indicated, far to the north, to the very extremity of the plantation's holdings, where the cultivated land faded into rocky barreness and a wild mountain range. They reached the limit of the fields, the last shores of the living ocean.

"Where?" Qui Gon asked quietly.

Obi Wan hesitated. His certainty ebbed. "I don't know. Nearby. I feel it."

"I do too." Qui Gon's keen gaze roved over the dark fields, the lightening horizon. "We'll split up." He pointed left and right. "Let instinct guide you. We will find him."

"Yes, master." He accepted the lightsaber silently pressed into his hand, feeling a spark of strength leap into his empty limbs. He would do this. He clambered over the speeder's side, wincing as his feet hit the earth. Wordlessly, Qui Gon draped his own cloak over his Padawan's shoulders and set off in one direction.

He could do this. He set off, along the edge of the first field, opening himself to the Force, heedless of consequence. They would find Mandirly, and rescue him. And then they would take care of the evil Antarians. He steeled himself and stepped forward.

* * *

><p>The night dragged toward reluctant dawn like a weary bantha lumbering toward some distant migratory goal, putting one heavy foot in front of another without end. Obi Wan doggedly worked his way through the lonely fields, gratefully drawing Qui Gon's cloak around him for warmth. Its hem dragged on the ground behind him, snagging on broken stalk fiber and collecting a rim of dark soil. His head throbbed dully, despite the bacta, and he realized grimly that he had not eaten or slept in a full two and a half days.<p>

Perhaps because of his exhaustion, or because he had been practicing the _tai vordrax_ meditations for so long, he found himself walking in a half-trance as the sun rose, bleeding lurid color into the serene pool of the sky. He trod along one edge of a yet-unharvested field, his mind afloat on the wind caressing the colfillini stalks, tossing their heads in mesmerizing rhythm. Birds floated with him, overhead. And smoke, gently drifting on the dawn's soft light, on the warm rays of morning. Ashes fluttered like snow upon his upturned face, and where they settled they burned a deep warning. He stirred, his awareness beginning to slide, despite himself, toward an open trance. He grasped at reality, shook his head, but the Force now roared beneath him, as full as the breaking light, red and crimson and fire-gold in the sky's ramparts. He followed the beacon of the smoke, the acrid scent that choked the air from his lungs. The Force pushed him closer, obedient to his desire, yet commanding his steps.

He knew he would find Mandirly here. His fingers fumbled, numbly, for his comlink, even as his footsteps carried him closer to the dark center. The Force rose around him, rippling, warping, the surface of the present churning like storm-tossed waves - breaking apart, slipping into the past.

"No," he moaned. Another step. He didn't want a vision, not now. Another step. The colfiillni parted, the smoke wended its lazy way overhead, ashes coated his skin.

The Force was ice, breaking up as a cold river flowed torrential beneath. His balance slipped. The world seemed to tilt. Cold snaked at the base of his spine. He pushed the last stalks aside, gazed into the clearing. His eyes widened.

The present trembled, as fragile as the dewdrops which clung to the colfillini, as ephemeral as the stinging ash which blew into his streaming eyes. His throat closed in horror, and he begged the Force. _No, no,no, no – don't show me. Please no._

He gazed at the mangled ruin of a human corpse, flesh withered and crumbling in the aftermath of fire, limbs frozen in an agony of pain, tongue-less mouth agape in a mute scream for mercy, fingers twisted and broken, blackened rib bones protruding through smoking cloth, charred skin flayed and falling into embers beneath.

"Nooo," he begged, sinking to his knees. But the merciless, unhearing Force opened beneath him, sending him plummeting to drown in the icy depths of the past, until he was in that horrific moment, witness and prisoner at once, torturer and tortured at once, his screams the last prayer of Tayvor Mandirly and his own tormented echo of despair as he relived and indwelt the pitiless torture and murder of a brave man.

* * *

><p>Qui Gon ran full tilt for the field, his Padawan's distress a livid scar across the pallid smear of dread in the Force. He shoved the stalks of colfillini aside, smelling the rot of burned flesh in the air, feeling the echo of cruelty stain the very air with darkness. He entered the clearing prepared – as prepared as five decades of training could render him. Still, when he saw the dark omen fixed to its grisly stake, the charred mockery of a living form, he was brought to a standstill. He bowed his head, accepting the deep shuddering blow to his solar plexus. The Force speared its way through him, howling with the traces of calculated sadism. He breathed, out. In. The center. The Light.<p>

Mandirly was horribly, startlingly dead. He was in the Force, beyond all help and beyond all need for it. They had failed.

He turned to the living. Behind the corpse, curled on the ash-laden ground, beneath the filthy drape of his own cloak, lay his Padawan. He found the boy's shoulders. "Obi Wan."

His apprentice looked white as death, dried blood from his own wound sticky and mottled along one side of his face. Tear streaks carved deep channels through grime and blood alike. His face was contorted in pain. The Force around him was a knot of boundless sorrow and betrayal.

He hauled the young Jedi upright, away from the scene, into the cover of the nearest colfillini plants, and let him sink down again on the carpet of red and green. Obi Wan bent over double, racked with heaves which brought little up. Gasping, still heaving short breaths, he rested his forehead on the ground, shivering violently.

Qui Gon gave him a moment. He let his gaze wander back through the veil of leaves to the charred remnants of Tayvor Mandirly, comprehension dawning. A cold chill seized him. His gut clenched in sudden pity.

He knelt again, touched his Padawan's back. "Obi Wan. You saw his death, didn't you?"

A nod of the head, a wordless affirmation accompanied by a stifled sob.

Qui Gon breathed out. Why had he ever encouraged the boy to cultivate _tai vordrax_ perception? It now seemed cruel. The Unifying Force was never a nursemaid. It dealt out truths without respect to persons or to feelings. It could be….devastating in its clarity. The joy that came with the gift of communion, of serving the living source itself, was also a curse of responsibility. Wisdom sometimes brought its devotees unbidden things – unasked for, unwanted things, visions of the dark, insight into suffering and malice such as mortals seldom attained. It was not an easy path.

Obi Wan was now sobbing in earnest, keening like a small youngling at the limit of its endurance, weeping uncontrollably, unashamedly, Jedi dignity forgotten.

Qui Gon did not reprimand him.

Long minutes passed. Finally the Padawan pushed upright, breath hitching as he fought to regain some semblance of control. "Forgive me, master. I'm sorry, I –"

"No," the older man cut him off. "Do not feel remorse for your compassion."

The young Jedi looked at him, eyebrows quirking upward again into a knot of pain. "They laughed, master," he whispered. "They _laughed."_

_Oh, Obi Wan…_ But there was no time for comfort, not now. They had a duty. "We must find and stop Raxis and Nolid. This is their act of contempt for life and justice alike. They will flee the system if they are able, and the Trade Federation will aid them. We have no time to waste."

And somewhere, somehow, Obi Wan found strength to stand, blue eyes shining and hard. "They won't escape," he growled out, with the finality of a promise. "They won't get away with this."

"Let's go," Qui Gon said, grimly. He led the way out, the stark monument to unspeakable, primordial cruelty still hanging upon its smoldering stake, amid the mournfully waving colfillini, beneath the sun's bright and fledgling glare.


	10. Chapter 10

**Field of Dreams**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 10<strong>

The agile air speeder came to a halt outside the Colfico headquarters, repulsors scattering gravel and dust as Qui Gon swung it alongside the broad front entrance portico. The two Jedi leapt up the building's shallow steps only to find the doors securely locked.

Obi Wan's saber thrummed low in the cool air, and he raised it high, ready and willing to carve straight through the heavy panels.

"Wait," Qui Gon commanded, raising a hand. Behind the massive stone edifice, distinct in the quiet morning, the thrum of engines from the planations' private transport yard.

"They are fleeing," the tall Jedi master barked. "Quickly."

A moment later they were back in the small Antarian government speeder, setting off in pursuit of a sleek private cloud cruiser which jetted away across the fields of colfillini. Raxis and Nolid could be glimpsed through the canopy, their faces set in expressions of contempt and determination.

"They will head for the nearest shipping yards, on the western coast," Qui Gon said. "I will contact the planetary security- they can meet us there."

Obi Wan nodded, pushed the speeder to greater velocity, held tight to the yoke as the lightweight craft strained to keep pace with the Antarians' much more powerful machine. They flew a streaking path directly behind the escaping brothers, drives whining in protest.

"The engines are overheating," Qui Gon observed dispassionately as the chase progressed. Warning lights had appeared on the console, and the speeder was indeed shuddering violently beneath them.

"We'll make it," his Padawan said tightly, not letting up speed at all.

The master considered his student with mild alarm; for a self-professed hater of flying, Obi Wan's present piloting style bespoke an uncharacteristic recklessness. Beneath his determination, a hot and molten outrage simmered- not yet dangerous, but darkly present.

The speeder bucked slightly as the young Jedi pushed it yet harder, taking it almost past its capacity.

In a moment, the Antarians began a steep descent, heading for a complex of wide buildings resembling hangar bays. Piles of shipping crates formed labyrinthine aisles outside some of the structures; among these towers, palette driods rolled about on the ground like insects sorting food into a hive. One or two heavy freighters of Trade Federation design stood waiting on the landing strips, continual parades of cargo trickling up their open ramps.

Obi Wan gripped the controls fiercely and followed the Antarians down, ignoring the streams of smoke issuing from their failing thruster arrays. The entire frame of the speeder spasmed and groaned as he made for the ground directly behind the fugitives. The Antarians whipped around a large building, skimming over the duracrete; the Jedi summoned the Force and leapt clear of their dying vehicle, springing away just before the speeder ploughed into a towering stack of open crates, throwing the plastoid boxes over the hard ground in a rending impact. The containers exploded and colfillini grains showered down in every direction, a gentle rainfall of seeds.

The Jedi landed on their feet, running, and dashed around the building's corner. The Padawan had activated his saber and was pelting through the warehouse doors after Raxis and Nolid before Qui Gon could restrain him.

"Obi Wan!" the Jedi master shouted, shocked at this headstrong and imprudent charge into unknown danger. His Padawan was not centered, not mindful. The Force was incandescent with danger. Qui Gon pounded after him, saber hilt in his hand.

Inside the warehouse it was dark; banks of heavy lifting machinery hung from the bare ceiling: cranes and pulleys, hydraulic slings and grasping mechanisms, lifts and counterweight blocks. Another labyrinth of stacked colfillini boxes filled the entire cavernous space, forming walls many meters high. The echo of footsteps rang off the high roof and hard metallic sides of the structure.

"Raxis! Nolid!" Obi Wan called out, his voice taut with authority, with a barely contained anger. "In the name of the Galactic Republic, you are under arrest!"

Qui Gon reached his apprentice's side, gripped his arm hard. "Be mindful of your emotions," he warned. He could feel the conflict churning beneath the brash tones.

"Go to the nine hells, Jedi!" a deep Antarian voice mocked them from somewhere within the rows of crates, as they prowled along one side of the maze, peering down each successive alleyway, sabers at the ready.

"You can say hello to that pathetic spy Mandirly while you are there," the same voice added, with an evil chuckle.

Obi Wan let out a strangled cry and leapt forward, into the row from which the voice had sounded, saber blazing as he swept it around in an aggressive arc of blue fire. Qui Gon spun and pursued him – almost too late. The Padawan's bold attack had landed him in a hail of blasterfire, which he deflected in furious motion, blade spinning and slashing as he batted plasma bolts back at the Antarians, precision abandoned in favor of power; the bright blade howled continuously as it swept in wide defensive circles. One of the bolts deflected into the top layer of boxes; a cargo crate smashed open and erupted, toppling its neighbors and starting an avalanche. The wicked brothers fled in one direction; the Jedi pushed the tumbling boxes aside with the Force.

Qui Gon felt his Padawan's desire to reach the two murderers flare up like a spout of fire. The young Jedi flung a box aside with a harsh yell and sprang after the brothers, leaping from container to container, across the stacked piles, over obstacles, in mad pursuit.

Raxis and Nolid made it to the double doors at the far end of the warehouse. Obi Wan sprinted after them, heedless of anything else, his Force presence shimmering with outrage and revulsion, teetering precariously on the edge of vengeance.

"Obi Wan!" Qui Gon called again, infusing the name with every ounce of authority and command he had, slamming against his Padawans' mind with the strength of the Force.

The boy skidded, half-spun; glared at the pair of retreating Antarians, scowled at Qui Gon, breath heaving in his chest, face set in rigid lines.

Raxis and Nolid reached the double doors, scrabbled at the control panel. Obi Wan seized a fragment of shattered plastoid box with the Force and hurled it into the door control. Circuits sparked and shorted; a long gash disfigured the panel. The doors remained closed.

Snarling, Raxis turned and fired again; Qui Gon raised his weapon and deflected bolts. Obi Wan jumped, straight up, saber thrumming as it slashed through one of the support cables for a gargantuan counterweight overhead. The solid block of metal plummeted downward, its remaining tether unraveling and pulling apart under the strain.

The Anatrians screamed, cringed, crouched in horror as death hurtled downward upon them, then froze as the looming slab stopped its murderous descent a half-meter from their heads.

Qui Gon's breath came out in a sharp hiss: Obi Wan stood, both hands extended, holding the ponderous weight wobbling in mid-air, the Force itself seeming to tremble with his exertion.

"Mercy!" Nolid cried out, dropping his blaster. "Don't kill us!"

"Please, I beg you," his brother pleaded.

"Did Mandirly _beg?_" Obi Wan hollered back, straining to keep the terrible weight aloft. His voice cracked. "Did he beg for mercy when you cut out his tongue? When you broke his bones? When you set him on fire _alive?_ Did he?"

The block slipped fractionally. The brothers cowered, screamed in terror.

"Step forward and surrender," the Padawan growled, lip curling in contempt, limbs shaking with effort or difficult emotion.

Raxis and Nolid scuttled from beneath the block, dropping to their knees, hands high above their heads. The slab dropped behind them with a deafening boom, cracking the duracrete foundation and raising a cloud of choking dust. They screamed again. ObI Wan staggered backward, spent.

The shouts and pounding footsteps of the security forces sounded outside. Qui Gon stepped aside as they rushed in, eager and noisily victorious. He seized his apprentice by both shoulders and spun him full around, gaze boring into him, question and accusation carried on the Force, across their bond.

But the eyes that turned up to look at him held no stain of darkness – only boundless sorrow and exhaustion. The Jedi master exhaled. "We're done here," he said soflty.

They had reached their utter limits.

* * *

><p>The Jedi retired that evening to the guest quarters provided by the Antarian government. Raxis and Nolid having been taken into custody by the Antarian security forces, a planetary judicial committee assigned to initiate the prosecution, the proper authorities dispatched to recover Tayvor Mandirly's corpse and to exhume the remains of the workers slaughtered in the fields, and a commission established to liberate and relocate the other Colfico volunteers recruited under coercive conditions, there was no task left for them to accomplish. They had fulfilled their mandate and left the aftermath to the oversight of the local government. Pollis Masa-Tu had thanked them profusely for their swift and effective intervention, and promised a transport at their first convenience. Indeed, he seemed quite eager to be rid of them, despite his florid public praise of their actions, particularly the "selfless dedication" of the Padawan – an encomium the recipient accepted with a stoicism worthy of his Order.<p>

At least, that's how it appeared to the various dignitaries assembled to hear the Prime Minister's official speech of thanks. Qui Gon Jinn knew better. He had politely declined the invitation to a banquet in their honor and firmly denied all requests for interviews or media correspondence. A short comm. to the Temple on Coruscant had secured a Republic diplomatic shuttle for their use; it would arrive within a standard day. He intended to eschew the Antarians as far as possible during that time; he, and especially Obi Wan, needed time to rest and meditate. As joyful as Pollis Masa-Tu appeared to be, he knew that the ending of this mission had been far from satisfactory, despite their best effort.

Now, as he knelt in meditation posture on the carpeted floor of the sumptuous room, watching moonlight slide over a ceiling and walls embossed with colfillini-shaped friezes, he wondered what would transpire after they left. Raxis and Nolid, and their criminal allies, owned the planet in more than economic terms. Their high level contacts and bribe recipients, and illegal profit-sharing partners, controlled the courts, the legislature, the tariff and tax offices, the transportation guild, and many other aspects of public life. In some respects, their power was equivalent to that attained by the most ruthless of Hutt overlords on far-flung worlds in the Outer Rim.

Nearby, Obi Wan turned over restlessly in his sleep – the first he had enjoyed in three days, by the Jedi master's reckoning. He had moved through the day's work – the reports and meetings - in a daze, saying almost nothing, hovering close beside Qui Gon at all times, unusually and markedly subdued. He did not even object when Qui Gon had called in a medical droid to tend his injuries and then sent him to bed like a youngling, well before sunset.

The Jedi master closed his eyes. He believed in keeping one's focus in the present moment..but here, for once, he was tempted to pry into the future. What would happen, once he and his Padawan departed? Their mandate had been limited: they were to confrm rumors of labor violations, and help the government apprehend those responsible. This having been accomplished, they could do nothing more without taking justice into their own hands, a tempting and dangerous practice. Tempting because he foresaw many difficulties ahead, many pitfalls in the Antarian justice system. He knew all too well the frustration and grief that could afflict his inexperienced apprentice if Raxis and Nolid managed , ultimately, to wriggle free from punishment. It would seem as though all their work here had been in vain.

Behind him, his Padawan stirred again, tossed onto his side, groaned something incomprehensible, and fell into uneasy silence.

Qui Gon sighed, and released his worry into the Force. This mission had left scars. Even he had not escaped unscathed. Had his words to the Trade Federation lawyer yesterday unwittingly hurried Mandirly to his awful fate? He had intended to provoke unrest, to trick the Nemoidian into revealing the prisoner's location. But it was possible that he had underestimated the evil of the Antarian plantation owners. Yes, even he had been naïve, too trusting. They had been taken by surprise in so many ways. Even Jedi could be caught off balance….

Suddenly, the young Jedi woke up screaming. He bolted upright, chest heaving, and then leaned forward, dropping his forehead down upon his raised knees.

"Mandirly?" Qui Gon asked, gently.

Obi Wan nodded and drew in a deep centering breath, eyes closed.

"It will take time for the dreams to pass," the Jedi master advised. "Do not fight them, or fear them."

His apprentice shot him a wry look and then rested his head against his knees again. "Those hell-spawned bastards won't be convicted or punished, will they?" he muttered, disgust and resignation heavy in his rasping voice.

Qui Gon sighed. "The future is uncertain," he said. "But I fear that is a distinct possibility. I sense much fear in the Prime Minister and his aides. And the brothers are very powerful here on Antar."

"I do not trust the Prime Minister," Obi Wan frowned. I sense cowardice and dissimulation in him."

"As do I."

"Then why did we come at all?" Obi Wan demanded. "And what about Mandirly? Those sons of a Sith deserve to …to _die-_ at the very least – for what they did to him."

"A Jedi does not desire vengeance or to exact equal suffering for wrongdoing," Qui Gon frowned. "And your language is far past the bounds of propriety," he added, sternly.

"_Kriff_ propriety," ObI Wan grunted, still curled in his ball.

Qui Gon stiffened. "Discipline yourself, or I will call that medical droid back in here and have you sedated," he threatened, an undercurrent of humor softening his commanding tone. "I likely should, anyhow."

His apprentice managed to uncurl. He rose from the bed and folded himself onto the floor across from his teacher. "Forgive me, master," he said, after a while. " It is difficult to accept that we must leave, and can do nothing more."

Qui Gon nodded. He studied his Padawan carefully. The boy had been injured, abused, overworked, deprived, and subjected to harrowing visions in the course of their few days on Antar 4. It was only natural for him to desire all his effort to bear some real and lasting fruit, not to be rendered meaningless by the corruption of the planetary crime syndicates. He knew a half-truth would be unacceptable; he must hold out the small gleam of hope. "All those working on the plantation now will be given the option to leave and resettle," he pointed out. "Many lives will be spared, or vastly improved. The governor has promised that much, and I believe his plan will be swiftly implemented."

"That can never balance the weight of evil already commited," Obi Wan said forlornly.

"Sometimes all we can do is provide for a better future. This is a truth we must all at one time come to accept. Some evils cannot be adequately punished, in the sense of retribution. To think otherwise, to seek balance through equal atonement…that is a dark path, Padawan."

Obi Wan folded his hands in his lap and studied them for a long time. "I understand," he said, at last. "But I wish we could have saved Mandirly."

"So do I." It was true; there was no point in denying it. A part of him whispered that he had the Alderaanian's blood on his hands. He banished the seductive whisper, the voice of the dark side beckoning.

Another silence.

"Was I not…..skilled enough? I might have saved him, had I been faster, or wiser."

"We did what we could. It wasn't enough," Qui Gon repeated, steering the conversation away from that morass. Self-recrimination would avail them nothing. "If there was a failure, it was on my part."

The Padawan looked at him somberly. Heaviness settled in the Force between them, aching. "Why?"

"I have told you before. Sometimes there is not an answer- not the kind you are seeking. Nothing happens by accident, or without purpose; but you will not be able always to see what that purpose may be. You must accept that Mandirly's death, and our failure to stop it, are the will of the Force."

"Then why did the Force allow it?" Obi Wan insisted, stricken. "Mandirly was a good man. Nobody deserves that. I …I can't _think_ about it." he turned his face away, combating turbulent emotion.

"You should not brood," The Jedi master sighed. "But you can meditate on it, if the question disturbs you."

"I don't want to meditate," Obi Wan confessed, in a near whisper. "I don't…the Force showed me that. I don't want to see…things, ever again."

Ah. Here was the heart of the matter. "You feel betrayed by the Force," Qui Gon observed. "Every Jedi faces that trial at some point. You are not the only one. Take heart."

"I…master, I'm…I don't wish to meditate. I don't want to touch the Force."

Qui Gon saw the single tear sliding out of captivity. He pretended not to notice. "You are a Jedi," he replied, lightly, but firmly. "You have sworn your life to the Force. You will, I know, keep that promise unto your very death. You cannot turn away form the Force, Padawan, even should it show you such things. That is part of your path. And I am sworn to lead you on that path, and see that you do not stray from it."

Obi Wan looked up at him again, shocked and a trifle confused. A glimmer of dread lurked in his gaze, too.

"We will meditate often over the coming days. I am not giving you a choice in the matter."

But it was all his choice, ultimately. Every step on this hard, grueling, uphill path was his own choice. Qui Gon did not compel him; he merely refused to offer any deceptive, shortcut, any easier and less noble road. All he could do was to stand as a signpost pointing unremittingly, mercilessly, to the hardest route, that which led toward wisdom.

Obi Wan let out his breath in a long sigh of mingled sorrow and weariness, making the same choice he had so many other times in the past, so many times yet to come. "Yes, master," he said.

* * *

><p>The next morning they visited the immigration center, where the vast majority of Colfico's present employees – its slaves in all but name – were in process of being relocated or reassigned to other jobs on Antar 4. Clerks and officials bustled among the unruly crowd; bodies pressed together, stood in lines here and there, sorted their way into separate buildings and the bowels of a large passenger transport waiting on the adjacent landing platform. The noise was deafening.<p>

Obi Wan trailed behind Qui Gon, speaking little, eyes taking in the happy disorder. They wove their way through the chaos toward the ship where those leaving the system straggled their way up the long boarding ramp.

"You see," Qui Gon pointed out. "Here are those who were helped. Whatever else does or does not happen, these lives will be better. You must hold to that knowledge," he advised his Padawan.

The young Jedi nodded, watching in melancholy silence as the bedraggled workers made their way into the ship's hold. A loud, moaning growl carried over the seething chatter and noise of the crowds.

Presently the head and shoulders of an enormous Wookie appeared over the top of the moving sea of bodies, and a long shaggy arm waved out at the Jedi from across the plaza.

Obi Wan perked up a bit, the tiniest of smiles lighting his features. 'A friend," he said, raising a hand to return the Wookie's greeting.

With a cry of delight and recognition, the huge Wookie shoved his way through the protesting crowd, loping toward the Jedi in three huge strides and enveloping ObiWan in a rib-crushing embrace.

"Easy, my friend!" the Padawan choked out when he was able to breathe."Are you going home?"

The Wookie uttered something vaguely affirmative, and then leaned down to examine Ibo's fresh clothing – and the lightsaber hanging at his side. This provoked a fresh series of growls, grunts and moans, ending with an interrogative lilt.

Qui Gon chuckled.

"Well," Obi Wan shrugged, only able to guess at his acquaintance's meaning, "You know what they say: things are not always what they seem."

The Wookie roared with laughter and tousled his hair affectionately, then smothered him in another long and suffocating embrace.

"Ouch…Thank you. May the Force be with you."

The Wookie roared his last farewell, beaming with delight, and disappeared up the ramp into the passenger hold. Qui Gon stepped forward to his apprentice's side once more, laying one hand gently on the young man's shoulder. "Hold to that," he repeated.

Obi Wan shoved his hands into opposite sleeves. "Yes, master."

It was small consolation, a lonely gleam of light in a dark place. But light nonetheless.

* * *

><p>That evening, the Antarian Prime Minister had the honor of seeing the two Jedi off personally. He bowed low to them, and beamed as they strode up the ramp of the small Republic diplomatic vessel delivered by droid courier to the main spaceport. The Jedi were …astounding. In what they were willing to do, and what they had done in so short a time. His office had been turned on its head – the arrest of Raxis and Nolid had already created a ripple of displeasure throughout the planet, a series of requests and complaints delivered with varying degrees of civility.<p>

The Republic had sent its emissaries, and the trouble had been uprooted. Antar would retain its trade status in the Senate, a good and compliant citizen of the Galactic Republic, a small but earnest world struggling to establish and maintain the impossible ethical standards demanded by law. It was his role to preserve the common good on Antar, and the loss of preferred trading status would be ruinous. He had done what he needed to do.

The Jedi ship's ramp hissed closed, and the ship rose on repulsors. Pollis Masa-Tu thurst a hand into his voluminous pocket, There nestled a credit transfer chip coded for a staggering sum – an incentive passed to him by the Trade Federation lawyer, as an encouragement to consider the good of _all_ Antar's citizens before pushing forward with the prosecution.

There were many to think of – many powerful people, with powerful friends. The image of Tayvor Mandirly's charred and twisted corpse hung in the air before the minister's eyes. He understood the message, even if the Jedi seemed immune to its subtle threat. They could leave, fly away to other troubled worlds. But he was stuck here.

He twisted his hands together and mopped his balding head. A public reprimand was called for. Perhaps fines. Yes, fines would be an excellent idea. The government could put the money to good use, and the brothers had plenty to spare. Raxis and Nolid could make a substantial and involuntary campaign contribution for the upcoming election….indeed, they might be able to promote his cause in more ways than one. Pollis Masa-Tu exhaled slowly. Yes, that was the only real solution. The only…_safe…_ solution.

It was close enough to justice. At least here on Antar, where things were complicated. Mandirly's death was…tragic. There was no doubt. Antar would offer to pay for the funeral, perhaps, send condolences to the grieving relatives on Alderaan. When the Jedi found out the fate fo Raxis and Nolid, they would not be pleased….they seemed to think the brothers deserved a lifetime in prison, or worse….but that was not his concern. Besides, the Jedi would be busy elsewhere.

He went back to his office, and watched the Republic ship disappear into the darkening sky, nodding to himself in affirmation. Yes. It was a good solution.

He turned back to his private speeder; the sun shone down on the endless seas of green and red colfillini, the wind moved upon the surface of the waving fronds, and the last smoke of Tayvor Madirly's memory drifted, fading into Antar's bleak sky, into mournful oblivion, into the Force.

FINIS


End file.
